


The Tumblr Drabble Series

by idelthoughts



Series: Tumblr Ask Box Fic [1]
Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Gen, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:17:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 73
Words: 45,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3099611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idelthoughts/pseuds/idelthoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two characters, one prompt, go.  A collection of drabbles and ficlets (mature/explicit fics are marked)</p><p>New chapters as of Mar 11:</p><p>67. <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3099611/chapters/14252185">Henry & Jo: "How long have you been doing this to yourself?"</a><br/>68. <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3099611/chapters/14252206">Henry & James: "Please, don't tell anyone."</a><br/>69. <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3099611/chapters/14252227">Henry & Jo: Scars and memories</a><br/>70. <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3099611/chapters/14252251">Henry & Jo: Friends with Benefits [mature]</a><br/>71. <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3099611/chapters/14252278">Henry & Abigail: Role Play</a><br/>72. <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3099611/chapters/14252317">Henry & James: Riding [explicit]</a><br/>73. <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3099611/chapters/14252344">Henry & Jo: Potentialities</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Henry & Jo:  Give Up

**Author's Note:**

> Each of these drabbles was originally posted on [my tumblr](http://truthisademurelady.tumblr.com/tagged/drabble-ask).

"Henry?"

Jo folded her arms and waited for Henry to acknowledge her, but he remained intent on the body in front of him, head bowed low as he examined the spread chest cavity, poking around with a long set of tweezers.

"Hey, Henry."

Henry’s head snapped up.  His forehead creased as he looked at her, puzzled, hands still wrist-deep in the body.

"Detective?  What are you doing here at this hour?"

"Henry, it’s seven in the morning."

"Is it?"  He swivelled around to the clock on the wall above his office.  "So it is."  He looked back at her, and she could already see him drafting a lie, turning her inevitable question back on her.  "Early start for you, isn’t it?"

"Crime never sleeps," she said.  "Kind of like you."

He sighed and removed his hands, dropping the tweezers on the cart next to him. 

"I haven’t been able to locate a cause of death yet."  He looked down at the body, the frustration evident in every single crease and worn line on his face.  "I’ve tried everything I can think of, and nothing.  I know it’s here, I just-"

"Henry, you can’t do it like this."  She came around the slab to stand next to him, glancing at the body.  "You’ve got to pace yourself."

"He’s a child, Jo!" Henry snapped, glaring at her.  He immediately straightened and shook his head as though clearing it, leaning on the table, head down.  "I’m sorry, that was uncalled for." 

"It’s okay.  I know how you feel.  This is a hard one." 

She looked at the young face, cold and grey.  Eleven years old - as unnatural as the deaths they saw every were, this was particularly unjust.  The case’s myriad unanswered questions had been running through her mind since she woke at five, and driven her to her desk early.  An impulse and a suspicion had sent her walking past the morgue first, only to find Henry exactly where she’d left him the night before when she’d gone home.

Henry stripped off the bloody gloves, threw them in the trash and sat on a rolling chair.

"His parents are waiting for an answer."  He rubbed his hands over his face.  "And I don’t have one yet.  I can’t give up."

"It’s not giving up."  She leaned close, trying to pull his attention from the slab, and she smiled at him when his gaze finally shifted to her.  "I’m not saying the waiting is easy, but you’re no good if you burn yourself out.  They need answers, yes - but you’re more likely to find them if you’ve still got your wits about you."

Henry narrowed his eyes, scanning her over, and he gave her a wry smile. 

"You could use a good sleep yourself, Detective."

"At least I tried," she countered.  "Not going to pretend it’s easy to let it go, but you have to at least try to keep a piece of your life outside of here."

"Are you lecturing me on work-life balance?"  Henry said, eyebrow raised. 

It was said with all the challenge of a man on the defensive, and she leaned back in her chair, eyeing him. 

"God, you’re bitchy when you’re tired."

He laughed, finally relaxing a little, and she patted him on the shoulder.  He stood and looked down at the boy’s body on the slab one last time before starting to pack up his tools.

"My staff will be in shortly.  Perhaps I’ll turn over some of the tests I’ve planned to Lucas."

"Great," Jo said, standing.  "Let me take you for breakfast, then I’ll drop you home."

"That’s not necessary," Henry said, glancing at her from the corner of his eye before busying himself with the tools again.

"Yeah, I know."  She headed towards the door, leaving Henry to his cleanup.  She called back to him over her shoulder.  "Meet me upstairs when you’re done."

She heard him mumble a quiet thank you as she left.  
  



	2. Jo & Hanson:  Michief Managed

"It’s not going to be that bad," Jo encouraged.  She was having trouble keeping the smirk out of her voice, and by Hanson’s glare, she knew she was failing.  "A few interviews, we’re out of there."

"They’re creepy," Hanson grumbled.  He stared out the passenger window as they pulled up to the convention centre.  "I mean, who does this with their free time?"

"Better than some alternatives."  She threw the car into park and grabbed her bag.  "Though I’ll admit this is the last place I’d expect a murder."

"I’m not surprised.  I always knew there was something wrong with ‘em."

The lobby was packed with the convention attendees, and Hanson ground to a halt in the doorway, looking around in horror.

"Clowns.  I hate goddamned clowns," he muttered under his breath.  "Why did it have to be clowns?"

The entire lobby was wall to wall with colourful costumes, face paint, and props from interrupted sessions on balloon animals, tumbling, hula-hooping and juggling.  Hanson looked like he wasn’t going to take another step.

"Yeah, but _murderous_ clowns,” Jo said.  “A little more interesting than your average clowns, right?”

"Is that supposed to make it better?"  Hanson asked, waving a hand.  "This is like my nightmares come to life.  Not only are they creepy, they actually might kill you."

"Come on, you big sissy," Jo said, and grabbed him by the elbow.  "Let’s go see the crime scene."

"You owe me.  You owe me big time,"  Hanson said.  "Next time we have a murder at the creepy bug zoo, I’m making you come.  You can interview the spiders."


	3. Henry & Abe:  Magic

Abe stared at the silver dime in the palm of Henry’s hand.

"Go on, take it,"  Henry said, offering it.

Abe raised his own hand to grab his ear, and carefully search behind it, then reached out and took the dime to examine it carefully.  He looked up at Henry.

"Do it again," he demanded.

Henry laughed, shoving his hands in his pockets.  “So terribly polite.”

"Please, Daddy.  Do it again?"

"Better."  Henry reached down for Abe’s ear, flipping the new quarter between his fingers and then brandishing it in front of Abe’s wide-eyed face.  "Ta-dah!"

Abe snatched the new dime, hopping with excitement.

"How did you do it?  How, Daddy?"

"Magic," Henry said with a lofty air and dramatic flourish.

"No, _really_ really, how did you do it?”

“ _Really_ really, magic,” he grinned.  “Now go put those in your piggy bank, young man.  Save them for a rainy day.”

Abe dashed off for his room to go hoard his new fortune, most likely already plotting the next day’s purchases - milkshakes and bubble gum, if Henry wasn’t mistaken.  Abigail looked up from her magazine on the couch, shaking her head with a smile.

"You torture that boy.  He’s going to be up all night trying to figure it out."

Henry dropped onto the couch next to her and put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to drop a kiss on her head.

"A father only gets so long to be magic in the eyes of his child.  I should embrace it while I can."

"Henry," she laughed, flipping a page in her magazine, "If there’s any father who gets to be magic in the eyes of his son for the rest of his life, it’s you."

Henry lost the grin on his face, and Abigail seemed to sense it, looking up from her magazine again.  She sighed.

"Oh don’t be like that.  You know you have to tell him someday."

"I’m well aware, Abigail.  But perhaps once in a while I can just be the man who can pull dimes from ears, hm?"

"Sorry, darling," she said, kissing him on the cheek.  "I didn’t mean to upset you."

"You didn’t."  He squeezed her tight.  "You keep me honest, I suppose."

She smiled and returned to her magazine, but Abe raced into the room and threw himself on the couch, climbing over both of them in a haste.  Abigail squawked a protest as Henry threw up his hands to prevent Abe from bashing him in the stomach by accident.  Abe ended his climb kneeling on Henry’s lap, face bright and intent.

"If I have one more dime, I can buy another pack of baseball cards!" he squealed.  He pulled at Henry’s hand, bringing it up to his ear.  "Do it again!"

Henry and Abigail laughed, and Henry threw his arms around Abe and drew him into a hug.

"Maybe tomorrow, Abe."


	4. Henry & Iona:  Innocence

Dinner was lovely.  Henry was a gentleman, friendly and warm, with all the appearances of being open and engaging.  It was only when they strayed too far into personal territory that he dropped into a polished and polite front, until the conversation shuffled on and he relaxed again.  As the evening wore on, she started to note the shift - a pause, like he was switching gears, and then something that looked like…she couldn’t even put her finger on it.  Fear?  Disappointment?  
  
He wanted to share, but something stopped him every time.  It made her more and more curious until she was leaning on the table, eyes narrowed and searching and ready for it every time she asked another pointed question just to see the reaction.  He started to stumble more, his shifting of gears getting clumsier and more awkward, until he looked at her in helpless frustration, masking it with a smile.  
  
"You are incorrigible," he said primly, taking a sip of wine.  
  
"Just trying to get to know you."

"By interrogation?"

"Oh, this isn’t interrogation.  I can show you interrogation, if you like."

Henry’s jaw sagged open as he looked at her, somewhere between shocked and intrigued, and she grinned.  Oh, he was so much fun.

He shook it off quickly, though she could tell the idea didn’t leave.  He probably didn’t even notice the repeated jokes and allusions he made to it throughout the night, but she counted each and every one, knowing it was just a matter of time.

And so dinner turned into drinks, and an invitation back to her place, and when she told him in playful tones that she was still determined to get to know him better - whether he liked it or not - he narrowed his eyes at her with a smirk.  It was a challenge, and if he thought he was winning it, he was sorely mistaken.

She kissed him to wipe the smug look off his face, but mostly because she was sick of waiting for him to do it.

Only when she noticed how nervous he was, how careful he was kissing her back, did she pause.  When she pulled back, his expression was vulnerable and hesitant, and he smiled at her, looking at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was there in front of him.

So there was Henry Morgan.  Sweet, innocent, too willing to trust - and that mask of his slipping just over a little kiss.  There were too many people in the world ready to catch hold of that and break it, either by accident or by design.  If he was as old as he was and still had that innocence under all the artifice, he had to be worth getting to know.

He kissed her again, and she tried to ignore the way her stomach fluttered.  She wasn’t going to go and fall for a guy on the first date she’d had in three years, and certainly not someone who had secrets that seemed to run a mile deep.  She wasn’t ready.  And by the way Henry kissed her, like his heart was spilling open and he was ready to let the first person to show him alittle kindness stroll right in and make a home there - she didn’t think he was ready either.

She didn’t stop kissing him, though.


	5. Henry & Adam:  Seeing Red

"I _thought_ so.  My god, you’re afraid.  You’re actually _afraid_ of dying.”

Adam took a step back and lowered the knife from Henry’s throat, and Henry took a heaving breath of air.  Adam put his hands on his hips and stared at him in consternation, like Henry was a misbehaving child throwing a tantrum.

Henry was pressed to the building wall and trying very hard not to let his whole body visibly shake - and doing a terrible job - so there wasn’t much point in denying it.  Still, he wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction, so he lifted his chin and glared at him.  Adam cocked his head and looked him up and down.

"It’s kind of sweet, Henry."

"Stop this," Henry said, holding up his hands, trying to reason with him even though he knew it was pointless.  Still, he had to try.  "There is no need for this."

Adam twirled the knife in his hands.  The blade caught the yellow street light shining down the alleyway as it moved, and much as Henry tried not to look at it, his eyes kept darting back to it as Adam fiddled with it.

"I think there is," Adam said.  He spread his hands wide, gesturing around him.  "What are you doing, Henry?  A nine to five grind?  Playing house with a man who doesn’t need a father anymore?  What next - a new wife, more babies?"  Adam flipped the knife and caught it by the handle again, and then clicked his tongue in disapproval.  "Why do you do it to yourself?"

"And what do you do, then?  Hm?  What’s so important that I should be doing instead of living my life?"  Henry demanded.  He pushed himself off the wall, trying to stand squarely even as his knees shook.  The dead, careless look in Adam’s - Lewis’ - whoever he was - eyes terrified him more than anything.

"You’re not living,"  Adam spat, and finally there was some emotion there.   He took a step towards Henry.  "You’re afraid of your own shadow.  You’re afraid to do anything." 

Adam took a swift step towards him, brandishing the knife, and Henry leapt back, knocking into the wall again.  Adam lowered his arm and laughed. 

"See?  Look at that.  You’re terrified, when what’s the worst I can do?"

Henry wet his lips, and looked to the end of the alley.  If he made a run for it, he could -

The thought was cut short by the piercing pain in his chest.  Through the ribs, into his lung, and the weight of Adam pinning him to the wall.  Henry grabbed at Adam’s collar and tried to wrestle him off, but he was skewered through and his grip had no power.  He had no breath to even scream.

"This is it," Adam said, his voice so calm.  "See?  This is all I can do. Nothing to be afraid of."

Henry beat at him with weak blows, to no avail.  Adam twisted the knife, and Henry lost control of his legs.  He started slumping to the ground, and Adam followed him down.  He grabbed Henry’s face and held it so Henry was forced to look at him.  He tried to twist away, but Adam’s grip was firm, his expression painfully earnest.  Tender, even.

"The rest of all this garbage you fill your days with - it’s clutter.  All that caring is exhausting, Henry.  And fear?  Why bother?"

"Why?"  Henry managed.  "Why are you doing this?"

"Oh Henry," he sighed, and patted Henry’s cheek.  "I’m trying to help you."

He drove the knife in again, and must have pierced Henry’s heart, because the world dimmed and faded, and he barely caught Adam’s words as sound and vision left him.

"Don’t worry, Henry.  I’m here for you.  I’ll always be here for you."  
  



	6. Henry & Jo:  Deep in Thought

Like a veil drawing back, memories of Coney Island and bringing Abe here as a young teen fell away, and Henry knelt down to have a better look at the dead body at his feet.  Back to matters at hand.

"Forty-seven seconds."

Henry paused in the act of opening his bag and looked up at Jo.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Forty-seven seconds.  I counted this time."

Henry cocked his head, trying to catch her allusion, but was at a complete loss.

"That’s how long you were staring into space."  Jo knelt down, and poked at the body.  The hand nearest her was outstretched, clutching a handbill of some kind, and with careful movement she pried it free. "You do that a lot, you know."

"Ah," he said, rather unhelpfully. 

She was reading the contents of the handbill, and though her question was phrased and pitched with a careless tone, Henry read her concern between the lines.  She’d been solicitous and overly-protective of late, since the incident at the shop.  And, much to his chagrin, less willing to let him brush off her questions.

"Anything on your mind?"

He smiled, glancing over to the ferris wheel.  “Remembering my last trip here.  My date threw up on my shoes.”

His ‘date’ had been Abe, and he’d thrown up on Henry’s shoes, trousers, shirt, and a silk tie that had been beyond salvaging afterwards.  And then, to add to the indignity, they’d been stuck on the ride for the next five torturous minutes until it stopped and they could disembark to go and clean up.

But a date was more likely to disincline Jo to ask further, so a date it was.  He stared at her steadily, and as he expected, she wrinkled her nose and gave him a dubious look.

"That’s gross."

"Yes, it was."  He gestured to the handbill in Jo’s grip, changing the subject.  "Any indication of where our victim has been?"

Jo gave him a last look before handing him the paper. 

"Looks like he was walking the strip."  She tapped the back side of the paper, and he turned it over to see the numbers scrawled in pencil.  "More importantly, whose phone number is this?"

"There’s one fast way to find out,"  Henry said, and held out his hand expectantly.  "Detective, may I borrow your phone?"


	7. Henry & Jo:  Hold My Hand

“It’s quite clearly a front,” Henry said, waving a hand across the street to the jewelry shop, scowling.  “I don’t see why we have to waste all this time.”

He hadn’t touched the cappuccino set in front of him, too intent on watching the shop for the last hour of their unofficial stakeout.

“Yeah, but we need proof, Henry,”  Jo said, taking a sip of her latte.  “Something a little more concrete than guesses.”

“Look at it - shabby merchandise presented as unattractively as possible, as though they’re trying to drive business away, obvious signs of disrepair, and yet well-dressed clientele coming and going with regularity.  It’s obvious!”

“That’s not enough to get a search warrant.”

Henry crossed his arms as he sat back in his chair, brows knit.  He froze and got that look - the one that always meant Jo was about to be running after him, and sometimes meant he was about to throw himself into some stupid situation she’d have to dig him out of, and rarely meant he was going to make any sense until he’d gotten hold of whatever bone he was after.

He leapt from his chair and started for the street, about to dash out.  She made a fast grab and caught him by the arm.

“Hold up there, tiger.  What do you think you’re doing?”

He stumbled as he reached the end of her tight grip and spun back to look at her, and then down at her hand on his arm.  His grin was manic.

“Yes, excellent idea!”

He grabbed her hand with his and dragged her out of her chair and out the door.

"Henry!"

She trailed after him as he pulled her across the street with single-minded determination.

“Henry, what the hell are you doing!”

Henry turned to her, pushing the door open with his back as he flashed her a bright smile.

“Just go with it,” he said, and pulled her inside.

“What-“

“This is the place, darling,” Henry said loudly. “I can’t wait to show you.”

The shopkeeper looked up from the iPad he was poking at and dropped his feet from the countertop.  He stood, scratching his head as Henry dragged Jo over to the counter.

“Uh, hi,”  he said.

“Yes, hello!”  Henry chirped, cheerful and bright, and Jo thought she might throttle him where he stood, witnesses or no.  “My fiancée and I would like to look at the ring you have in the window.”

The man scratched his head some more, looking between them.  He looked clearly mystified by the concept of customer service, and Jo wondered if he’d ever had actual customers wander in here. 

“I dunno, um.  Which one?”

“Oh, there are a few.  They’re in that centre tray in the front.”  Jo put on her best smile and tried not to visibly grit her teeth when Henry put an arm around her and gave her a squeeze.  “Isn’t that right, darling?”

Jo looked up at Henry, trying to communicate all the ways she was going to make him suffer as soon as this farce was done.  By the amused twinkle in his eye, she knew he understood perfectly well.

“That’s right, pookie,” she ground out. 

“Okay, right,” the man mumbled, and shuffled to the front to grab the trays from behind the window display.  “Just give me a minute.”

Jo leaned close to Henry.

"I’m going to kill you," she whispered into his ear through clenched teeth.

"I’d like to see you try," he whispered back.  “Now keep him busy up there!”

He released her hand and dove behind the counter.

"Henry!" she hissed, but it was too late.

Left without any choice other than to leave Henry out to dry, she was forced to turn and rush to the front of the shop.  She patted the man on the back as he leaned over the trays and before he could straighten and turn back to the shop she pointed down at them.

“You know,” she said sweetly, smiling at the man, who looked a little lost and flustered by her attention, “now that I get a better look, maybe that one?  No, no wait, um… hm, give me a minute…”

She was going to kill Henry.  Absolute, complete, utter premeditated murder.


	8. Henry & Jo:  Love + Under the Rain

By the time Henry made it to to the bottom floor and propelled himself from the stairwell into the precinct lobby, Jo had already left the elevator and was pushing through the front doors to the street.

"Detective, wait!"

She either didn’t hear him or was choosing to ignore him - either way, he wasn’t about to give up that easily.  He hurried across the lobby and out onto the sidewalk.  It was pouring rain, the heavy sheeting of a summer thundershower, and in no time water was trickling down into his collar as he chased after Jo’s quickly retreating form.

Henry broke into a run to catch her before she crossed the street, and caught her by the arm.

"Jo, please-"

"God, Henry, take a hint!  Leave me alone!"

She shrugged off his hand and turned to glare at him, her eyes red, and he pulled back.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-" he started, but she cut him off with a slicing wave of her hand.

"You didn’t mean to what?  Call me an alcoholic in front of my partner?"

"I didn’t say that."

"You might as well have."

"If Hanson hasn’t noticed you’ve been so hung over you can barely see straight the last three days, then he is no detective."

He waited patiently until her glare faltered.  She looked away from him, out into traffic rushing past, and at the people hurrying to find shelter until the rainstorm passed. They were both of them already soaked, but he wasn’t sure he could persuade her to stay and talk to him, let alone coax her to find shelter with him.  He wanted to reach out to her, but he was half-certain she would punch him if he tried.

Her mouth tightened and her jaw muscles twitched, and by the way she was blinking rapidly he could tell she was working hard to hold back tears.

"I know it’s been a bad week," he said tentatively.

"It has been a fucking _awful_ week.  Oh goddamn it, I am so sick of this,” she muttered, and wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand when the tears escaped.

”I’d offer you a tissue, but I think there would be little point.”

She glanced at him and he smiled gently, holding his hands out to indicate the deluge around them, and she gave an almost unwilling laugh.

“I know maybe I haven’t been…  Its just the case has been - it’s been - and thinking about Sean - “

She stopped and gulped a breath, which turned into a sob, and she put the back of her hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut.

Henry reached out and put a hand to her elbow, and when she didn’t pull away, he moved closer and pulled her into a hug, wrapping his arms tight around her.  She didn’t resist, only buried her face in the wet lapel of his jacket and started to cry in earnest with hard and shuddering gasps.

”I’m sorry,” she said against his shoulder.

”Don’t be.”

He held her, tucking his chin over her head and rocking her as she cried.  She’d exhausted herself emotionally with the case and memories of her husband, and physically with long work hours and heavy drinking whenever she wasn’t working.

”You don’t have to do this alone, Jo,” he murmured, rubbing her back.  “Whatever you need, we’re here.  I’m here, if you want.”

She didn’t answer, but wrapped her arms around his ribs and held onto him as she cried.

Henry closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the rain and Jo’s sobbing.

Sometimes life was dreadfully unkind to those who deserved it the least.


	9. Abigail & Abe:  Hero

Abe had come home from college full of holes.   Holes in his sweaters, holes in his shirts, holes in his trousers, and Abigail had very nearly had to pry them from his hands to repair them.    
  
Only when she produced a series of colourful patches—which he had pronounced ‘groovy,’ which she thought was a good thing—would he release his clothes to her care.  By the number of holes in his trousers alone, she was going to be spending their entire weekend visit sewing.    
  
Not that it mattered.  Abe seemed like he would sleep the entire weekend anyway.  At half past eleven he finally emerged from his room, shuffling around with wild hair and half-mast eyes as he fixed himself cold cereal.  
  
“Good morning,” she said.  “For a while yet.  You made morning with thirty minutes to spare.”  
  
Abe grunted and sat down at the table with his cereal, but he had the decency to look a little apologetic in response to her gentle criticism.   
  
“Sorry, late night.”  
  
“Catching up with old friends?”  
  
“A few.”  He took a few bites of his cereal, then glanced around.  “Where’s Dad?”  
  
“He got a call to work the emergency room, so he went in to the hospital.”  
  
Abe frowned.  “He’s still in the emergency room?  I thought you both gave that up?”  
  
“He still has the energy for it,” she said with a shrug, working the needle through the thick patch in her hands.  “I think he likes the excitement, though he’ll never admit it.”  
  
Abe made an acknowledging sound and took another bite of his cereal.  Abigail finally worked the needle through the patch and pulled it through.  She held it away from her a bit to look at it—it was horribly gaudy, but the thread was a good enough match for the stylized flower.  And Abe insisted it was the fashion and what he wanted, so she might as well just go with it.  
  
“Can I ask you a question, Mom?”  
  
Something in Abe’s voice made her look over at him.  Abe was staring down into his bowl of cereal, poking at it without any indication he was going to eat it.  
  
“Of course, sweetheart.  What is it?”    
  
When he looked up, his eyebrows were drawn together and his mouth set in a serious line.  She put the trousers to the side and stood to join him at the table.  She slid into the chair opposite him.    
  
“Is everything alright?”  
  
“Oh, yeah.  It’s fine.”  He pursed his lips in thought, and then finally said, “It’s about Dad.”  
  
It wasn’t like Abe to be so circumspect in his conversation, and she tried to ignore the small knot of worry that was starting to form in the back of her thoughts.  Abe put down the spoon and leaned back in his chair, tucking his hair, grown long in his year away, back behind his ears.  
  
“You guys—the two of you.  I just wonder if it’s gonna change.“  He blew out a big breath.  “He won’t let me call him Dad anymore, you know.  Keeps reminding me to call him Henry if I say it in front of him.”  
  
She smiled gently and reached out to hold one of his hands, giving it a squeeze.    
  
“You know why, though.  He doesn’t look old enough any longer to be your father—but it doesn’t mean he isn’t.  Pretending to be brothers is easier for now.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.”  He stared down at their joined hands.  “But I mean, you still look like my mom, and—“  
  
“If you’re about to tell your mother she looks old, Abraham, I suggest you reconsider your current line of thinking,”  Abigail said, arching an eyebrow in mock indignation.   
  
Abe winced.  “Naw, Mom—oh god, you don’t look old, that’s not what I meant!”  
  
“I’m teasing, sweetheart, I know what you meant.”  She patted his hand and laughed, but it quickly faded.    
  
She did know what he meant, and the truth of it was, he was right.  Things were going to change for her too, and soon.  She pulled her hand back and laced her fingers together in front of her.  
  
“You mean when am I going to have to pretend I’m his mother instead of his wife?”  
  
Abe nodded, chewing at the inside of his cheek, and he folded his arms tightly, hands tucked in his armpits.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I don’t know.  Someday.”  She stood up and straightened her skirt. “Not yet, though.  Right now the bridge ladies think I’m loaded, to have a handsome young thing like Henry for a husband.  I’m not quite ready to give up that reputation yet.”  
  
“Oh—Mom! No, ew!  No!”  
  
She laughed, delighted by the complete look of offended horror on Abe’s face.  She came around the table and kissed him on the cheek.  
  
“Abe, we deal with it as it comes.  That’s what we’ve always done, and it’s what we’ll keep doing.  No matter what anyone else sees or thinks, we’re a family.  Understand?”  
  
Abe nodded, his customary lighthearted smile finally returning, and he looked up at her.    
  
“Yeah.  Thanks.”  
  
“Now eat, and get dressed.”  She kissed him on the head, and returned to the living room couch and the pile of mending.  “We’re going to have to go to the store and buy some more patches.”  
  



	10. Henry & Jo:  Hold My Hand (round 2)

Jo put her hand on his, and he stared down at it.

Warm. Hand a little rough—she didn’t moisturize. Fingernails short, no paint, because she’d never waste time on something as frivolous as that. Firm grip. Caring, crossing as much of a line with him as she figured he’d allow. The list of habitual observations scrolled by unnoticed, coming and flitting just as quickly away from him, as he looked at her hand on his.

A pat, and her fingers trailing away as she left him to go back to the crime scene. 

His home, his crime.

His hand, pulling a letter opener out of Clark Walker’s chest, pulling to work it free of muscle and viscera, where he’d buried it deep.

He wasn’t sure he deserved her understanding, or her comfort. 

 

***

Jo put her hand on his, gently prying the autopsy report from his tight grip. He stared down at her retreating hand.

“Why don’t you call it a day, Henry.”

Soft tone, quiet words. She turned the paper face-down on his desk to hide it from his view. Beside him, making it a friendly overture, not across the desk to make it a confrontation. He blinked. When had she come to stand next to him? When had she entered his office, for that matter?

“Dr. Vaughn has the case. You don’t need to review it.”

She closed the rest of Clark Walker’s open autopsy file and slid it away from him. His eyes followed it.

Cause of death: stab wound, severing the left subclavian artery. 

His hand, driving through, aiming for the artery with all the precision and knowledge his medical training offered him.

“Come on, let’s take a walk.”

Jo nudged him. He didn’t bother arguing, just stood and followed her out of his office.

 

***

 

Jo put her hand on his, and this time, he looked up into her face. The concern, the hesitance. Her thumb rubbed along the back of his hand, warming the cold skin.

“You didn’t have a choice, Henry.”

“Didn’t I?”

He hadn’t made a choice, he’d acted. There’d been no weighing options, there’d been instinctive fear, a fight he wanted to bring to a definitive end, and an act there was no coming back from. Not for Clark Walker, anyway.

Jo shook her head. A lock of her hair, blowing in the cool wind coming off the river, drifted across her cheek.

“No. You didn’t.”

He let go of the rail and slid his hand into hers, holding it. She squeezed tightly, and he smiled. Tried to smile. It was probably nothing like a smile, but she seemed to appreciate the effort anyway.

“Thank you.”

She nodded. They continued to look out over the river, watching the sun face away, and when he saw her shiver he suggested they start walking back to the precinct. It was long past time they both headed home. Not that he wanted to go home, exactly, but Abe was waiting for him, and he should.

He loosened his hand, but Jo didn’t. Instead she tugged at him, and he adjusted his grip and followed her unspoken request, holding her hand like they were children and walking by her side. He gave her a curious look, but she was already chatting on about the busy week upcoming, and how many extra calls they got with all the craziness that went on over Christmas and New Years.

He didn’t deserve her comfort, or understanding, but he had it.


	11. Jo & Hanson:  Through the Fire

“You want to come over for dinner tonight?”  
  
Jo’s eyes didn’t leave the computer screen as she answered him, still tapping away at emails that didn’t need answering at 6pm on a Friday.  
  
“Thanks, that’s okay.  Going to stick this out and try to finish up tonight.  You headed out?”  
  
Well, not like he expected it to be that easy.  Round number two, then.    
  
“There’s a roast in the slow cooker waiting for us when we get home.  You know how it is, leftovers for days.  You’ll be doing us a favour.”  
  
This time she smiled a bit, but still no love.  
  
“Maybe another time.”  
  
He sighed.  Round number three.  
  
“Come on, Jo.  You know we’d love to have you over.”  
  
This time she stopped typing, at least.  He scooted his chair around his desk and next to hers, leaning an elbow on one of the stacks of teetering files that were building a perpetual paper castle on her desk these days.  
  
“That’s a yes, isn’t it.”  
  
She leaned back, rubbing her eyes before looking at him.  
  
“You don’t have to do this.”  
  
“What, try to save myself from a week of leftover roast beef sandwiches?”  
  
She laughed, and he grinned wider than the small little sound probably deserved, but it was a relief to see any kind of positive expression on her face.  Anything but that blank exhaustion she had draped over her like a mantle was a fantastic improvement.  Two weeks back after Sean’s death, and he could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen her crack a smile.  
  
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, it’s just…”  she shrugged, picking at the rough cuticles on her hand, avoiding him as much as she could while still talking to him.  “I’m not up for it tonight.”  
  
Whatever she was going to say, it was gone.  But he was pretty sure he knew anyway.  He saw the way she’d looked last week when she’d agreed to the offer, when he’d walked in and kissed Ellen hello, and she’d excused herself to the bathroom for a little bit, eyes and nose red when she came back after ten minutes.  He didn’t have to have a psychology degree to guess that dinner with his family might not be the thing she wanted right now.    
  
“Yeah, okay.  Fair enough.”  
  
“Thanks, though.”  
  
“‘Course.”  
  
She nodded, satisfied he hadn’t taken offense, and returned to her emails.  He kicked his chair back around to his desk, and after chewing it over for a minute, grabbed his phone and took a walk down the hall, dialling Ellen’s number.  
  
“Hey baby,” she said when she answered.  “What’s up?”  
  
He could already hear the kids screaming in the background.  Post-daycare pickup, they were amped up and wild before dinner.  He winced, knowing she was probably not going to be happy with him. He was already an hour late leaving, and this was the second call home to change up plans.  
  
“Yeah, I know this is last-minute, but was thinking I might do dinner with Jo tonight.”  
  
A short silence from her end, punctuated by a shriek, and a thump.    
  
“What about her coming here?”  
  
“I tried.”  
  
Ellen sighed, and then, “Yeah.  Okay.”  
  
“You sure?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s fine.  Tell her I say hi.”  
  
“Thanks, hon.  I owe you.”  
  
“Yes, you do.  Alright, see you when you get home.”    
  
It was said light-heartedly enough that he knew she wasn’t completely annoyed, and they’d talked about it enough during sleepless midnight hours that he didn’t think she really minded.  Jo was practically part of the family at this point, and Ellen was just as worried about her as he was.  
  
“Hey,” he said, before she could hang up.  “I love you, okay?”  
  
It felt like he couldn’t say it enough these days.  It wasn’t his grief or loss, but watching the legs being cut out from under Jo—he’d been standing right in front of her when she’d got that call, and he thought he was going to have to catch the phone when she hung up, before she dropped it on the ground—every time he thought of that moment he wanted to run home, kiss Ellen, kiss the kids, and just thank whoever was up there that they were safe and well.  He didn’t know what he’d do without them.  
  
“I love you too, baby.”  
  
They said their goodbyes, and he stuck the phone back in his pocket as he returned to his desk.  He dropped in the chair and pulled the stack of take-out menus from his desk drawer.  Jo looked up from the screen, spotting the menus.  
  
“So, we gonna order in, or you up for a restaurant?”  he asked.  
  
He waved the chinese food one at her—her favourite, so probably the best bet.  She crossed her arms and gave him a half-smile.    
  
“What about that roast beef?”  
  
“I love leftover roast beef sandwiches.”  
  
He invested the statement with as much passion as a man could devote to leftovers, and dared her to call him a liar.  It was slow coming, but she smiled, and with a shake of her head she stood and grabbed her coat.  
  
“Come on, let’s go.  If I’m gonna be your charity case, it might as well be a good meal.”  
  
As they walked out, he threw an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side, giving her a squeeze, and she leaned her head on his shoulder.    
  
It was a start, at least.  


	12. Henry & Jo:  Safety First

  
“No, thank you.”  Henry buttoned his coat and drew the scarf around his neck, tucking it tight against the coming winter chill.  “I appreciate the offer, but I think not.”  
  
“It would be safer if you knew how to use one properly.”  
  
Jo leaned against the wall by the coat hooks as he dressed for outdoors, not the least bit deterred by his refusal.  Her intentions were well-meaning, he reminded himself, no matter how misguided.  
  
“We do not have a gun in our home, so, whether or not I know how to operate one—properly or otherwise—is a moot point.”  
  
By the look of her, the folded arms and the condescending patience with his refusal, she did not understand.  Why would she?  She had spent the greater part of the last ten years of her life with a weapon comfortably on her hip.  It was a tool, and one she knew how to use effectively—that Mark Bentley was the first person she’d killed on the job spoke well to her restraint and understanding of her job as a police officer, and not a mercenary.  There were others who certainly did not know the difference, and probably shouldn’t have had either the badge or the weapon in the first place.  
  
Even so, Henry had served in two wars and still never used a gun; he was not about to start now.  
  
“After something like what you’ve gone through, people can get jumpy,” Jo said, and when Henry gave her a sharp look she held up her hands to take the accusation from her words.  “I don’t mean that you are, I’m just saying, it happens.  It might make you feel better to know that you can handle yourself in any situation.”  
  
Any situation.  Like someone breaking into his home and trying to kill him, and kill Abe.  
  
“I am a medical examiner, Jo.  I don’t need to know how to handle a gun,” he said, grasping for patience that was quickly deserting him.  “I am already far too familiar with their use and results, I have no desire to become any more intimate with them than I already am.”   
  
It happened more and more, these last few weeks, that he was thrown into short temper, or unexplained moments of melancholy, or even heart-stopping fear, all without warning.  He could feel it creeping over him, and he struggled to focus on her, the calm and quiet of his office, and the simple conversation they were having.    
  
He couldn’t ever really explain to her that he’d died of too many gunshot wounds to ever want to inflict such a death on another.  
  
On the other hand, he’d died of plenty of stab wounds, and that hadn’t stopped him driving a letter opener through Walker’s chest.  Had it?  
  
“Henry?”  
  
Jo was looking at him with concern, having straightened from her lean against the wall and moved near him, all without him having noticed.  He pulled his gloves from his pocket and shoved his hands into them, trying to ignore their shaking.  
  
“As I’ve said, I appreciate the thought.  But it’s not necessary.”  
  
She bit her lip, looking between his face and his hands.    
  
“If you want—“  
  
He did not want to know what her offer would be, and quickly cut her off with pleasantries.  
  
“If you’ll excuse me, Detective, I must be on my way.  Sorry to dash, Abe is waiting on me.  I promised I’d be back promptly this evening.”  
  
He opened the door to his office and waited expectantly for her to exit with him.  It took her a while, and he prepared himself for more of her concern—and he wasn’t sure he could take it, any more questions and he felt like he was going to be ruder than she deserved—but she shrugged and packed away whatever she was going to say, likely for another time in the future.  She walked through the door past him and into the morgue beyond.  
  
She lingered a moment longer to see if he’d walk out with her, but he took the route of rude ignorance and delayed, peeling off to one of the work benches and pretending to check on the PCR machine that was in the middle of running a sample sequence.  
  
“Okay, goodnight, Henry.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”    
  
“Goodnight, Detective.”  
  
He stared at the blinking timer on the readout like it held some relevant information other than the number of hours left on the sequencing, while he listening to her fading footfalls.  He finally relaxed as the far doors closed, and sat in the rolling chair near the bench.  
  
He laughed to himself, unable to keep it down any longer, at the notion of him with a gun.  His own views on violence aside, he could do anything he liked—learn to shoot, arm the entire shop with cannons, even—it wasn’t going to make a lick of difference.  
  
What good was a gun against an immortal?


	13. Henry & Jo:  Seeking Solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post 1x11 and 1x12, Henry still isn't coping well with fieldwork.

“Henry, can I talk to you?”  
  
He knew this was coming from the moment he'd tackled their suspect and thrown himself in the way of the gun pointed at Hanson, but it didn’t make it any easier to turn and face her.  
  
Hanson was busy wrestling the suspect into the waiting squad car, and Jo was already making her way back to Henry.  He clasped his hands behind his back and gave her a civil nod, which was the best he could manage at this point.  He was having trouble meeting her eye, let alone standing still for what he knew was going to be yet another concerned inquiry for his well-being.  
  
“What can I do for you, Detective?”  
  
“Don’t give me that, Henry.  You know exactly what I’m going to say.”  
  
Behind her, Hanson slammed the door on their recalcitrant suspect and looked over towards Jo, then Henry.  The concern on his face was apparent as well, and Henry couldn’t help the wince.  This was not his intent.  Jo, he suspected, was covering for him with Reece, given that he hadn’t been hauled in for a lecture by her, but he doubted Hanson would do the same.  It was just a matter of time before he’d be removed from field work, not to mention sent back to Bellevue.  
  
At this particular point, he’d rather resign than go back there.  
  
“Yes, I know,” Henry sighed.  
  
Jo tightened her mouth, and then hooked an arm in his.    
  
“Come on, let’s take a walk.”  
  
Henry let himself be pulled on, even though it took a little bit of effort to encourage his feet to move.  He wanted nothing less than Jo’s concern right now.  Adrenaline was still coursing through him from the tussle with the suspect, the man staring at Henry with wide eyes as Henry landed on him, grabbing him by the collar and rolling on top of him.  
  
He’d tried to knock the gun aside, but the man had held onto it.  He’d had the gun to Henry’s belly.  He’d looked Henry in the eye, and it was only a shred of humanity superceding his fear that had stopped him pulling the trigger.  That hesitation was enough time for Henry to roll aside, and by then Jo and Hanson were on the suspect, kicking the gun from his hands and cuffing him.    
  
Henry had lain on the ground for a good half-minute and stared at the cloudy sky, not giving a damn if he was ruining a perfectly good suit jacket on the wet pavement.  It had been close.  
  
It had been close, and he hadn’t cared.  He still didn’t care.  
  
They walked in silence for a block before Jo let go of his arm and spoke.  
  
“Henry, you can see that what you’re doing isn’t reasonable, right?”  
  
He chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to think of any response.  He certainly had no answer that was even remotely sturdy enough on which he could base a rebuttal.  
  
Jo stopped walking, and he was forced to do the same.  
  
“I—look, I need you to understand.  It’s my job to protect you, to keep you safe out here, and right now, I don’t know how to do that.”    
  
“I’m sorry.”  He shook his head.  “I am not trying to make your job more difficult, I promise you.”  
  
He tried to avoid her eye, out of words, but she stepped closer to him and made it impossible.  He looked at her, the concern painting every single bit of her face, her stance, and his guilt was overwhelming.  
  
“Screw my job, Henry.  This is about you.  I don’t want to see you get yourself killed.  That’s not the solution here.  I am worried about you.”  
  
 _But it doesn’t matter._    
  
The words were on the tip of his tongue, and he wanted to shake her, to shout them.  He could die a hundred times over and it didn’t matter.  He could tackle suspects, stand in front of cars, jump off buildings until the end of time, and if it sent the right people to jail, and protected the people who needed it, then a job was done, problems solved, and he would pop up from the water and walk home.  Cold, wet, maybe another public indecency charge, but fundamentally fine.  
  
“I’m fine,” he said.    
  
“You’re not.”  
  
She wasn’t going to let him out of this, and he finally had to look away from her to avoid the care in her eyes.  He was getting emotional again, the frustration and guilt prodding at things he kept locked down for the most part, so long as he didn’t think too deeply on it.  Jo, though—Jo was determined to pry at it and make him face it.  Half of him wanted to relax into it and let the words tumble out.  Fear and years of learned silence kept them locked in.    
  
He drew in a deep breath, looking at his shoes.  They were scuffed from his struggle with the suspect, and it would take some doing to shine out the scrapes.  
  
“Perhaps I should head home,” he said.  
  
Her silence stretched on for some time, before he heard her sigh.  
  
“Yeah, I think so.”  
  
He nodded, and then looked up.  She had folded her arms, and was half-turned from him.  
  
“Well.  I’ll see you tomorrow then.”  
  
She gave him a last glance, and then nodded.    
  
“Okay.  Call if you need anything in the meantime, okay?”  
  
“I will.”    
  
He wouldn’t, and she knew it.    
  
“Have a good afternoon, Detective.”  
  
He turned to go, and headed with some haste towards the nearby subway station, perfectly aware that Jo was watching him walk away.  Only when he was around the corner did he relax, wiping at his damp eyes with a shaking hand.    



	14. Henry & Jo:  Seeing Red [mature]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mature rating (non-explicit)

If he could put his finger on why it had happened, it would be easier to accept.  Too much wine wasn’t a good enough excuse, and neither was the lack of sleep after days of overwork—justifications, possibly, but not excuses.  
  
Henry couldn’t even say who kissed whom first.  Talking had turned into commiserating, and then somewhere between one moment and the next, her hands were pulling loose his tie, he was pushing her jacket off, and he couldn’t stop kissing her if he tried.    
  
The months of stress had piled up on both of them, and the dam had burst in the most predictable, expected way.  Loneliness was a formidable opponent and had made stranger bedfellows of people than the two of them, and so he could barely muster surprise that they found themselves here.  Even knowing this was most likely a mistake couldn’t stop them from trying to fend off the isolation they were both battling, because the fight was so much easier together.  Until the morning, at least, when life returned with all its uncomfortable truths.  
  
Half his clothes ended up on the floor by the couch, discarded in bunches as Jo stripped him layer by layer, not giving him a chance to second-guess himself, and he kept his eyes closed as she kissed him and tugged at his clothing.    
  
He couldn’t look at her.  If he looked at her, if they acknowledged this was happening, he’d have to stop it.  She didn’t want him—she wanted something to make her heart stop hurting, to heal the wound of losing her husband.  Of all the things Henry could be for her, he wasn’t the person who would make her hurt less.  Ugly pain, misfortune and loss trailed behind him, and he couldn’t bring those to Jo’s doorstep.  It was hard enough being her friend and keeping the vagaries of his life from impacting hers.  He could never manage more.  
  
He knew all this, and so he kept his eyes shut so that he couldn’t see it was Jo kissing his neck and unbuttoning the last thin layer of his shirtsleeves.  He wanted to be selfish and stop thinking, to stop battling the exhaustion and unhappiness, and for once feel good.  Surely that wasn’t too much to ask of life, to grant him the pleasant escapism of sex, and the pretense of intimacy afforded by casual encounters.  
  
But it was Jo, and he couldn’t set that knowledge aside, couldn’t keep the woman he knew separate from the warm body against his.  It was the smell of her, the mild fragrances she wore filling his head, and her strong hands pulling him until he was over her, pinning her down to her bed that she’d invited him into, and it was the taste of her in his mouth, already grown familiar in a handful of kisses.  
  
He thought it would be fast, foolish, quickly done and over, leaving them to sheepishly gather their things and go their separate ways after a cathartic release.  It wasn’t.  When they finally stripped bare, leaving the last scraps of modesty behind, they slowed, grasping hands turning towards soft exploration instead of territorial conquest.    
  
Her skin was hot like a furnace, sliding against his as he turned onto his back and she climbed over him, her hair falling around him like a deep brown curtain blocking everything else out but her.  
  
He didn’t mean to, but he opened his eyes, and she was all he could see.  
  
“Jo,” he whispered.  She looked down at him and he cupped her cheeks, smoothing his thumbs over her lips.  “Are you sure about this?”  
  
Her gaze slid away from him, and before she could move to kiss him again, he caught her by the shoulders.  
  
“Jo, please.”  
  
She sighed.  “What?”  
  
“Are you sure you want to do this?”  
  
“Are you?”  
  
He wished he had a good answer.  He knew he wanted to, and he knew he wasn’t going to stop unless she told him to.  He also knew it was probably a mistake, because it could never be more than just this.  The loss of a thing he’d never have—it already hurt.  How was that fair?  
  
In the space of his silence, she moved her body against his, sliding and shifting until she settled, fitting them together, and he gasped with her.  He panted against her neck, his brief moment of sensible caution wiped away with one simple move; he put his arms around her to hold her close, hold her still, trying to trap them in this single moment, to tie them together.  His body was eager, and hers felt like it was vibrating with energy, and he needed this so much, needed her.  
  
He wanted to speak to her; he wanted to say he loved her, because he wanted to love her.  Maybe he already did love her, he wasn’t sure.    
  
He didn’t remember what falling in love felt like.  He’d done it twice; once so long ago it seemed like a dream, and once so catastrophically and completely that it felt like his life ended and began again in that moment.  He wanted this to be about love, to be more than comfort, refuge, or solace.  He wanted to be able to whisper endearments in her ear instead of the wordless sounds she pulled from him when she finally coaxed him to loosen his hold and let her move on him.  
  
“Henry,” she sighed.  
  
It was her voice saying his name, her hands on his chest, her body moving against his.  Rolling them together so Jo was beneath him, he propped himself up to see her properly.  He didn’t want to hold back any longer, to pretend his way out of the responsibility of whatever was between them. 

He wanted to say he loved her, but she pulled him down into a kiss, wrapping her legs around him and bringing him deeper, and the words were lost; trampled by heavy breath, whispered encouragement, and sounds that had no shape at all.  He cried out with her, certain he’d never be able to forget this moment, the sound of her voice, the feel of her body.  
  
In the stillness that followed, he made to lift his weight off her with shaking arms.  She stopped him—holding him tight in the same way he had done—keeping him against her.  She stroked his neck and back and he eventually relaxed again, burying his face in the dark hair spread across the pillow.  
  
There was a conspicuous silence where their words should have been.  Neither of them knew what to throw into that breach, and instead clung to each other.  
  
He didn’t know what would come of this—nothing, most likely.  Gentle agreement that they’d been foolish and lonely, and affirmations of why it wouldn’t be a good idea to continue on this path.  It was for the best.  
  
But her fingers grazed over his shoulder blade, and already he knew that if she’d have him, he’d be hers.  He’d lie, bluff, cheat his way through years of his life, pretending and hiding everything about himself, just to stay with her like this.  He’d close his eyes and pretend he didn’t know how it would end.    
  
He didn’t want to hurt her, but he didn’t want to let her go.    
  
There was no saying they would last long enough for it to matter.  Just because Henry couldn’t let go of people didn’t mean that others felt the same in return.  She might tire of him, let him drift away, before he needed to say anything to her, before she asked why he was perpetually thirty-five, why he had no history and no family, why he was more questions than answers.    
  
He sighed and shifted off her, laying on his side to face her, and she was watching him, face quiet and serious.    
  
No—not Jo.  Jo didn’t let people go either.    
  
And so, this was it—was all it would ever be.  He hadn’t really expected any other ending.  He smiled to cover his sadness, and leaned close to kiss her on the cheek.  
  
“Thank you,” he murmured.  
  
When he pulled back, she had tears in her eyes.  
  
“Are we okay?” she asked, and there was a catch in her voice.    
  
He pushed a lock of hair from her face, tucking it back behind her ear.  She was a gentle soul, underneath all the armour that kept her safe.  
  
“It’s fine.  We’re fine.”    
  
He gathered her close to him, and she laid her head against his collarbone, wrapping her arms around his chest.  He closed his eyes.  
  
He did love her—that much he could see, now—and one thing he had never figured out how to do was stop loving someone.  
   
For good or ill, she was a part of him.  



	15. Henry & Abe:  Are You Challenging Me?

**New York, 1977**

 

Abe tried three clubs before he found Henry.  
  
At 2am the place was packed, and only a hefty bribe to the bouncer got him in.  The thumping bass made his whole body thrum with the sound waves, the flashing lights disorienting to the senses, but even so it didn’t take long to find Henry.  He was at the bar, hand waving in a flurry of activity as he talked, shouting loud over the music to the three girls with him.  One of them looked cosy, snug under his arm and ducking out of the way of his gesticulations when needed, and the other two were giggling away.  
  
Abe pushed between sweaty bodies to make his way over.  Too many people, too much noise—it irritated him, setting his teeth on edge.  He was getting too old for this kind of thing.  Just another thing to add to the delicious irony of dragging his father out of here.  His father, who now looked ten years younger than Abe himself, but was acting even younger, like a kid out partying to the break of day.  
  
“Henry,” he called, shouting over the noise.    
  
Henry took no notice, and Abe finally slapped him on the shoulder, pulling at him.  Henry swivelled around, staggering.  He was glassy-eyed, but the smile on his face was brilliant and gleaming when he saw Abe.  
  
“Abraham!  My boy, come here!”  
  
Prying himself loose from the girl’s hold on him, he reached out and caught Abe in a bear hug.  Abe patted him on the back half-heartedly.  The best thing he could say about all Henry’s boozing was that at least he was a happy drunk.  However, even drunk, Henry could wiggle his way out of anything, a smile on his face, and Abe hoped he could get Henry to the car without too much arguing—he wanted those hubcaps still in place when he got out there.  
  
“Abe, I’d like to introduce you to some people.  Sarah, Angelica, and Lindsey.”    
  
With clumsy limbs, he flailed around to indicate the three girls, who were watching them with amusement.  One of them, the dark-haired girl who’d been clinging to Henry’s side, was looking Abe up and down.  His plain jeans and flannel shirt weren’t exactly club standard, but Abe was long past caring about such niceties.  Henry leaned into Abe’s ear, his voice blasting full volume and making Abe’s eardrum ring unpleasantly.  
  
“Lovely people.  You know, Angelica is studying medicine—pre-med, actually.”  
  
Oh, that was just perfect. Henry was picking up girls who probably had to use fake ID to get into this place.  Abe closed a hand around Henry’s bicep.  
  
“Alright Casanova, let’s go.”  
  
“What?”  Henry’s face crumpled in confusion.  “No, no—I was just chatting—“  
  
“Yeah, I know.  Come on, we’re going home.”  
  
“Oh.”  Henry staggered as Abe tugged at him, then swung a last smile ‘round towards the girls, who were whispering to each other now, shooting them dubious looks.    
  
“Goodnight!  Pleasure to meet you all!”  
  
Henry grabbed onto people as they left, saying howling goodbyes to be heard over the music—probably regulars he knew, given how much time he spent in these damned places—and Abe had to continuously disentangle him from his socializing to finally get him out the door.  He put a shoulder to Henry’s back and propelled him past the bouncer, to whom Henry called out a cheery goodnight.  
  
Outside in the relative quiet of the late night street, as Henry chattered on about how the club had changed from dance hall to disco over the years, it was apparent how drunk he really was, slipping and slurring over words, half of them lost in inarticulate garble.  He’d downed half the bar, by the sound of him, and he smelled like vodka and lemon.  He let go of Henry to get the car keys from his pocket and unlock the passenger door—still had his hubcaps, thank god—and Henry pitched up against the side of the car, slumping back on it and letting his head fall back to look up at the night sky.  
  
“Henry, get in the car.”  
  
“I could have gotten a cab.”  
  
“Nobody is letting you in a cab,” Abe snorted, and flung the door open.  “In.”  
  
Henry lolled his head over, eyelids half-mast as the energy of the club crowd drained out of him, all the alcohol finally taking its toll.    
  
“I could have.”  
  
“With what money?  I’m going to bet you blew it all, like last time.  And I’ll take a 2am pickup over your 4am call any day.”  
  
“Ridiculous,”  Henry slurred, and he propped himself up to standing, weaving as he rooted in his trouser pockets.  “I’ve—I’ve got…”  He trailed off, and managed to produce a meagre handful of coins, and he stared at them with confusion.  “I had—“  
  
“Get in the car.”  
  
Abe’s patience was gone.  He manhandled Henry in, who finally went without further protest.  Abe slammed the door and marched around to the driver’s side.  He was getting tired of this routine.  
  
As they drove on, Henry’s heavy drunken wheeze was the only thing breaking the thick resentful silence.    
  
“I’m sorry,” Henry said finally.  He reached out and put a hand on Abe’s knee, and patted it.  “I love you, you know.  I do.  I’m sorry.”  
  
“God, Henry, give it a rest.  Don’t go all sappy on me.”  
  
Abe brushed him off, and and tried not to care about the hurt, maudlin look on Henry’s face.  Damn the man—damn his love, his heartbreak, his carelessness, his immortality, all of it.  The man was determined to waste the rest of his life in a stupor, and Abe was starting to wonder if it was any business of his.  
  
If he’d known it was going to be like this when Mom left, he would have begged harder for her to stay.  He’d never have thought Henry would roll over and lose himself like this.  He’d been a solid pillar Abe’s whole life, dependable and steady.  
  
He’d had no idea it was Mom that was holding him up this whole time.    
  
“Henry, what am I supposed to do with you?”  
  
He looked over, and Henry was passed out in his seat, slumped down against the window, jaw slack.  
  
Great.  Now it was going to be a hell of a time getting him into the apartment.  
  
  



	16. Henry & Jo:  Drive

“You didn’t just do that.”  Jo couldn’t even bring herself to look at Henry.  “Seriously.”

Henry ran a hand over the top of the steering wheel as though wiping away imaginary dust.

“To be fair—“

“Fair?  That is a parked car.”

“—The accelerator is more sensitive than I remember them being,” Henry continued with quiet dignity.

“ _Parked_ , Henry!”

“Yes, thank you, I am aware of the situation.” 

He reached for the gear shift between them and slid it into reverse, turning to look over his shoulder.  Jo slapped a hand over his and slammed it back into park.

“No.  Forget it.  Out.”

Henry frowned at her.

“But we just started.“

“We just started, and in the space of thirty seconds you have damaged not one, but two police vehicles.  We haven’t even left the parking lot!”

Henry lifted his chin, looking offended.

“This was your idea.  I told you.”

“Yeah, but I thought you were just being stubborn.  I didn’t think you were _this_ bad.  You’re not bad at anything!”

“Well there _was_ a reason I stopped driving!” Henry snapped back.  “These bloody hair-trigger, overpowered machines.  Do you have any idea how many car accidents I see on a daily basis?  People sailing along at speeds fast enough to turn a body to pulp—”

“And god forbid we get to that point, given you hit a parked car at less than five miles an hour,” Jo said, interrupting his rant.  She held up her hands.  “Okay, no more driving lessons.”

“Thank you.”

They unbuckled their seat belts and climbed out of the car.  Jo came around to the front of the car to stare at the dinged bumpers.  Paperwork.  That was all Henry seemed to make for her was more paperwork.  This was the last thing she needed today.

“Sorry,” Henry said gamely, standing at her side. 

He handed over the keys, and she took them with a sigh.

“Just go cut up some dead bodies or something, okay?  Stick to that.”

“As you wish,” he said with a nod, and turned to head back to the precinct building.

Jo narrowed her eyes as she watched Henry walk away.  She was fairly certain there was a suspiciously pleased spring in his step.


	17. Henry & Lucas:  Words

Lucas had been quiet all day, buried in his work.  There was nothing amiss that Henry could put his finger on other than his unusual reserve.  
  
No matter the day, Lucas always had an anecdote to share. Sometimes it was as mundane as the fact that his breakfast cereal had gone stale—but he ate it anyway—and the great disappointment that had caused him, but it was always something.  Henry was grudgingly impressed that Lucas could talk as much as he did without repeating a story.  
  
Today, however, he was quiet.  No volunteered stories, no unasked for witty (by Lucas’ standards) observations, nothing.  It made the lab disturbingly still.  Henry had become accustomed to the chatter as a de facto part of the morgue’s background environment, and its absence was notable.  
  
At lunch, Henry wandered past the break room and glanced in the door.  He paused and back-pedalled when he saw Lucas.  
  
Lucas was stopped in the middle of pouring himself a cup of coffee, empty cup in one hand and the coffee pot in the other, but he was lost in thought, a far away expression on his face.  Unlike his usual thoughtful face, however, Lucas looked troubled.  Sad, if Henry had to put a name to it.  After a moment’s indecision, Henry moved to stand in the doorway.  When Lucas didn’t notice him, he cleared his throat.  
  
“Lucas?”  
  
Lucas startled, sloshing coffee on the table.  He scrambled to set the pot and cup down and grab for paper towels.  Henry joined in the effort, wiping up the spill that was spreading across the table and headed for the floor.  
  
“Oh, it’s okay, I’ve got it.  You don’t have to do that,” Lucas sputtered as he wiped at the mess.  
  
“Half my fault,”  Henry said.  He straightened and collected the soiled paper towels from Lucas’ reluctant hands, and threw them away.  
  
“Well, thanks.”  
  
“No problem.”  Lucas was still not quite himself, so Henry decided to ask. “Is everything alright?”  
  
“Oh, well.”  Lucas ran a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at the floor.  
  
Henry blinked in surprise.  He had yet to see Lucas reluctant to discuss anything.  Now having hit such a wall, he found himself concerned.  Even so, should a typically open person draw such a boundary, it was certainly best to respect it.  Henry smiled and turned to go.  
  
“Sorry.  I’ll leave you to it.”  
  
“No, no,”  Lucas said, holding up a hand.  “I mean, thanks for asking.”  
  
Henry stopped, waiting as Lucas worked through whatever he was going to say.    
  
“My grandma died this weekend.”    
  
“Ah,” Henry said in sudden understanding.  “My condolences.”  
  
“Thanks.”  Lucas shrugged.  “Not like it was unexpected or anything, just—you know.”  
  
“I understand,” Henry said with a nod.  “You don’t have to be here right now, Lucas.  Expected or not, death takes time to accept.”  
  
Lucas straightened up, giving Henry a frustrated look.    
  
“But that’s the thing, we see death every day, right?  Like, it’s not as though it’s some big mystery.  My mom’s standing there like she wonders how this could have happened, and it’s pretty obvious how.  It’s normal.  Happens to everyone, eventually.”  
  
Henry tipped his head towards the break room table and pulled out two chairs for them.  Lucas reluctantly joined him and sat in one, slumping in the chair, and Henry sat in the other.  
  
“Death is not the same as loss,” Henry said gently.  “You may have experience with one, but the other remains a challenge that hardly anyone becomes practiced at accepting.”  
  
Lucas picked at a small scratch in the tabletop surface.    
  
“Yeah, I guess so.”  
  
They sat in silence for a moment, and then Henry stood and rested a hand on Lucas’ shoulder.    
  
“Stay today, if that’s what you need.  But don’t feel as though you must.  Take the time you need.”  
  
Lucas looked up at him with a tired expression and nodded, and Henry remembered again how very young Lucas was, both in age and in experience.  Henry patted his shoulder.  
  
“Thanks, Dr. Morgan.”  
  
Henry nodded and left the break room, heading on his way.  


	18. Abe & Jo:  Waiting

The ambulance speeds away, and Jo finally has a moment to pull out her cell phone. She readies herself as she dials, knowing she has to keep her voice calm and level.

“Hello, Abe’s Antiques.”

“Abe, it’s Jo.”

“Hey, what’s up?”

“It’s Henry. He took a bad fall. He’s on his way to the hospital.”

The silence stretches for so long she’s not sure he’s going to respond. In the space that hangs there, she tries not to think about her own fear, her guilt over letting Henry get out of hand, letting him take more foolish risks on the job. She tries not to picture the look of utter surprise on his face as he overbalanced backwards and she grabbed for his hand, trying to catch him, missing him by inches.

“How bad?”

“We don’t know yet.”

She waits for the denials, the fear, anything, but Abe only asks for the name of the hospital he’s headed towards, and says he’ll meet her there. 

 

***

 

It’s a waiting game to see if Henry is going to make it or not.

Abe is pacing the waiting room back and forth, demanding from every nurse and doctor who comes by that they let him in to see Henry. 

“Did Henry ever talk to you about, his, uh,” Abe waves his hands around, as though he’s trying to draw the outline of something huge in the air, but it never takes shape. “About his life? Or anything like that?”

Jo isn’t sure what he means, but it sounds bigger than the odd anecdote about being a gravedigger, so she shakes her head no.

“No, I didn’t think so.” Abe gives her a last look, and then starts away again, pacing once more. 

 

***

 

She thinks that eventually Abe will wear himself out, but after two hours he still looks like he’s ready to batter down the doors to the surgery and operate on Henry himself. Jo tries to talk him down, but he won’t have any of it.

He finally rounds on her and grabs her by the hands, and he looks like he wants to say something, but it doesn’t come out. He just gives them a little shake.

“Abe, it’s going to be okay.”

“You don’t understand. This isn’t good.”

“I do understand, okay? I’m worried about Henry too.”

He throws up his hands in the air, and, muttering curse words under his breath that would make her grandmother blush, he rambles off to try the desk staff again, who’ve just changed shift and haven’t yet heard his pleas.

Many hours later, they find out that Henry made it through the surgery. They let them into the room, and Henry is unconscious.

The doctor talks to them while they stand there, Abe holding Henry’s hand, and the doctor says that Henry is in the clear now, he’s going to recover, with time. 

Abe won’t leave. Jo goes to rustle up a cot for him and argues with enough people that they let Abe stay. Even though he’s not legally family, Jo isn’t going to let anything stand in the way of him sticking it out with Henry. She didn’t think she could drag him away at gun point, anyway.

But she needs sleep and there’s no cot for her, and she needs a few minutes by herself to cry and try not to think of what it means to her that Henry almost died. She manages a few hours at home, and then is back as soon as visiting hours open, coffee and bagels in hand for Abe, who accepts them with an exhausted thank you. He looks as though he didn’t sleep at all.

She’s still there at mid-morning when Henry wakes, disoriented and confused. Abe is instantly there to hold his hand and rub his shoulder. Jo feels like she should leave them to have some privacy when Henry looks up at Abe, reaching up to touch his grizzled face, but she’s so glad to see him awake that she stays.

“Abraham,” he croaks. His gaze roams around what he can see—the curtain behind Abe, the light through the window, he’s still disoriented—and then closes his eyes. “It was close, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, real close.” Abe looks up at Jo then, like he just remembered she was there, and he pats Henry’s cheek, trying to gather his attention. “Hey, hey Henry. Detective Martinez is here. So, uh—she’s here, okay?”

“Jo?”

Henry’s eyes flutter open again, and he rolls his head to focus on her. She takes her hands out of her pocket, gives a little wave. She really has no idea what to do.

“Hey, Henry.”

His smile is faint but there, and his eyes slide closed once more. It’s all they get; Henry’s asleep again.

Abe straightens up, wiping the back of his hand across his face quickly.

“You want to take a walk, get some fresh air?” Jo asks. “I can sit with him.”

Abe nods and puts his hands on his lower back, leaning back and stretching out his muscles. 

“Yeah, thanks.”

Jo settles herself by Henry’s bedside, and after a moment’s indecision, she reaches out and takes Henry’s limp hand, holding it. It’s the hand she’d failed to catch when he fell. 

When she closes her eyes and pictures it, she reimagines it so that she makes it that last little gap. But even when she does, his fingers passes through hers like a phantom.

Henry’s hand is reassuringly warm and solid and real, and she squeezes it. Abe makes a little noise, and she looks up to see his warm smile.

“I’ll be back shortly,” he says, and then he’s gone. 

She returns her attention to Henry, watching him sleep peacefully instead of lying unconscious. She’s not sure what makes it look different, but it is. 

“What am I supposed to do with you, Henry?” she whispers.

He doesn’t respond, and she wonders what she would ever do if he died.


	19. AU Interludes #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of short AU drabbles based off tumblr prompts. In theory, three sentences apiece. In practice...no.

**_Henry & Reece, rival secret spy AU_ **

"If you kill me, neither of us will have these plans," Henry said, tucking the envelope in his breast pocket with a thin smile. "And I’m certain you don’t relish sending that report to your superiors."

"Who said anything about killing you?"

Joanna held up the gun and sighted his leg and fired. Henry went down like a sack of potatoes with a yelp. She crossed the room and rolled him onto his back with a strong kick.

"That wasn’t very sporting," he groaned, clutching his thigh as she rifled his jacket.

"Henry," she sighed, rifling his jacket and pulling out the envelope. He made a weak grab for it, but she easily broke his grip. "The sound of your voice gives me a headache."

"Charming as always, Joanna," he grunted through clenched teeth.

She left him there, envelope safe in her own pocket. As she exited the hotel, the muffled sound of a gunshot came from inside. She paused, looking up at the third floor window to the room she’d left Henry in.

She turned away, continuing on with a quick step. Not her concern. Anyway, he’d likely be fine; he turned up again and again no matter what she did. The man seemed to have more lives than a cat.

 

*****

**_Jo as the immortal AU_ **

"There’s a part of me that still feels her, like I’ll look around, and she’ll be standing there." Henry swirled the cognac in his glass, staring into it, and then shook his head to clear it. "I just want it to go away."

Jo watched the medical examiner blink away poorly concealed tears, still held in the thrall of fresh grief. She remembered that first year after Sean disappeared, the leap of her heart every time she saw someone from the corner of her eye; sometimes the dark-haired, straight-backed form of his youth when she’d met him so long ago on the steamer to Newcastle, sometimes the silver-haired, creased smile of his later years. It was never him, but it never changed the hope.

Even now, she glimpsed shadows of him wherever she went.

"It won’t," she said before swallowing a gulp of whiskey. It was going to her head, long out of practice with alcohol as she was.

Henry stared at her for a moment, then shook his head with a lopsided smile.

"Well, at least no one can accuse you of being circumspect, Detective."

She smiled, surprised by his amusement. Usually this is where people gave her their excuses and made a hasty exit. Yet Henry was still here, sharing a companionable drink.

Interesting guy, this medical examiner.

 

*****

**_Henry and Jo working with Sherlock and John AU_ **

"Are you sure about this?" Sherlock asked, fingering the gun.

"Ah, to record this moment - you asking me my opinion," Henry joked between clenched teeth. "Yes, I’m sure. Make it quick, before John and Jo get here. I’m going to die either way, so spare me a public exit."

"You could be delusional," Sherlock pointed out.

"Could be. You know I’m not, though."

"Hm." Sherlock lifted the barrel and sighted it to Henry’s forehead. "Very well. The cab will be ready."

Henry breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you."

"I’ve never been thanked for shooting a man in the head," Sherlock mused. "First time for everything."

_Bang._

 

*****

**_Henry/Jo, married couple AU_ **

"We’re not going to talk about this again, Henry," Jo said, squeezing his hand. "I’m not quitting."

"You almost died,” Henry hissed. He looked around the hospital room, his residual fear turning to anger. “Another inch to the left and—”

"But it wasn’t, and I’m still here, and thirsty, so could you stop being a baby and pass me a glass of water?"

Henry stood with his jaw hanging open a moment longer, then huffed a laugh. He leaned in and dropped a quick kiss on her lips and then did as she asked. When his back was turned, she took a moment to collect herself with a deep breath.

The only thing that scared her worse than dying was the idea of what Henry would do when she finally did.

 

*****

**_Henry/Abigail, Catch Me If You Can AU_ **

Henry gripped the rail as he looked down to the busy Grand Central station floor, at Abigail waiting just as she said she would, swivelling around to try and spot him.

He wanted to go; he wanted to run to her, not care a whit for the plainclothes FBI waiting obviously around the edges of the station for him to appear so they could throw him in cuffs and drag him away.

He clamped his jaw shut, blinked his eyes clear, and turned away, headed for the trains. He’d send her a letter when he made it to Havana.

 

*****

  ** _Henry and Jo as fobwatched Doctor and his companion AU_ **

"Straight-forward this time - blunt force trauma to the head," Henry said with a sigh. He stood and pulled the pocket watch from his pocket and flipped it open. "Home in time for dinner today."

As she did every time, Jo braced herself when he opened the watch, but…nothing. The Doctor - no, Henry now - raised an eyebrow as he noted her small flinch, but other than casting a curious eye over her, he said nothing. He never did.

"Okay, I’ll wrap this up," she said with a sigh.

There were worse places than New York in the twenty-first century. And, as it turned out, she was a pretty damned good detective, so at least there was that.

 

*****

**_Henry/Abigail, Bonnie & Clyde AU_ **

As soon as the prison guard left the room to allow them their visiting time, Abigail dropped the shocked and grieving wife act and stuffed her white handkerchief in her purse.

She reached for his hands and he gave them to her, the cuffs around his wrists rattling. When she withdrew, she’d slipped him two tiny pills.

"Fast and painless, darling. Now hurry up and meet me by the lake," she whispered with a wink, and stood.

"Have I mentioned lately how much I love you?" Henry replied, watching her go.

"Don’t be late," she said. "I’ve got a car waiting."


	20. AU Interludes #2

_**AU where Henry and Jo investigate Ron Swanson as a murder suspect.** _

Leslie slapped the pointer against the carefully crafted collage, rattling it on the easel stand.

"And that, my friends, is why without a shadow of a doubt, Ron Swanson cannot be your killer!  Andy, get the lights!”

Henry and Jo squinted as the fluorescent lights flickered on, their eyes used to the dark - which had grown even darker as the sun set over the course of Leslie’s presentation.

"Leslie, if you’d have let me finish my sentence - " Ron checked his wrist watch, "-three hours ago, I could have told these people I was having breakfast at the time of the murder.  Ask at the pancake house.  They’ll tell you."

"Oh."  Leslie swiveled from Ron back to Jo and Henry with a bright smile.  "See?  Told you he was innocent."

Henry put a finger in the air.  He wasn’t entirely sure if he was allowed to speak, or if he had to be acknowledged first, and at this point he was afraid to bring on another tirade from the formidable woman with the rather piercing voice captaining the office.  Jo gripped his knee urgently, fearing the same, but with the air of a queen granting her subject a favour, Leslie gave him the floor.

"Mr. Swanson, the murder window is between eight and ten in the morning.  Surely your breakfast cannot account for those two hours."

"Son, if your breakfast takes less than two hours, you’re not doing it right."

Ron folded his arms and stared at Henry with dead eyes.

"You know, I think I’m good here," Jo said, rising from her seat and tugging at Henry’s arm.  "What do you say Henry?"

"Yes…yes," Henry agreed, finally managing to tear himself away from those eyes.  And that mustache.  How did a man grow a mustache like that?  It made his own previous attempts look feeble.

"Bye!  Okay, bye then!  Come back soon!  Oh, before you leave, check out the guided tours at the Wamapoke burial grounds!  Or visit—"

Jo and Henry fled, the sound of Leslie Knope’s voice trailing behind them at full pitch.

 

*****  
  
 _ **AU where Richard Castle and Henry Morgan meet**_

"Castle?  Why do you have a naked man in your car?"

Kate leaned an elbow on the open window and looked across him at Henry in the passenger seat.  Henry had his hands modestly across his lap, trying to look as nonchalant as a naked wet man in a heated BMW seat can.  A leather seat that Rick was going to have to get redone, thanks to likely water stains.  He wished he’d had time to go home and get a towel before Henry called.

"Him?  Old friend.  Isn’t that right, Henry?"

He reached out to slap Henry on the bare chest.  Henry’s answering grin was weak.  He fluttered a hand as though to wave at Kate, but then thought better of it and continued to cover himself.

"Er, yes.  Richard and I went to school together."

Rick had been Henry’s student during Henry’s brief stint as a teacher, and accidentally killed him in one of the most stunning high school chemistry experiments to ever go wrong in the history of education.  Since then, he’d been the backup call when Abe was out of town, mostly out of guilt.

"Yeah, catching up on old times!"  Rick turned back to Kate with a smile.  "You know how it is.  Few beers, get a little wild, suddenly someone’s naked in the river."

"Okay, Castle.  Whatever you say.  But give me a call when you’re done reminiscing.  We’ve got a crime scene."

"You got it."  He rolled up the window and sped off, leaving Kate and the precinct behind.  He reached into the back behind his seat blindly and pulled out the police sweats and handed them to Henry.  "Sorry about that, I thought I’d get in and out with the clothes before she caught up with me."

"I thought you were a writer?"  Henry said as he wriggled into the clothes.  "What are you doing working with the police?"

"Long story, my friend.  Long, long story."

 

*****

_**AU WHERE LUCAS AND HENRY ARE SWITCHED** _

Henry reached blindly for the syringe on the table as he stared into the microscope, but overshot by inches.  Damn these limbs, they were all too long.

"Do you, um.  Do you think you’re going to be able to fix this?"

Henry looked up from the microscope to the worried face hovering on the opposite side of the lab bench.

 _His_ face.  His _own damned face_ , staring back at him with Lucas’ expression twisting it up in knots.

"I’ve kind of got a date tonight.  Katy, the lab tech that just started last month.  And she’s going to be mighty weirded out if her boss shows up for the date."

"If you would stop bothering me, perhaps I would be able to finish examining this sample and see whether or not I can determine if there has been any significant alteration to our blood chemistry,"  Henry ground out.

Lucas’ eyes widened.  Henry’s eyes.  Oh, this was confusing.  Henry rubbed a hand over his face, and it was disturbingly large, like having a spider attack him.  He pulled it away and stared at it a moment before bracing himself on the edge of lab bench.  Which was farther away than normal.

"I cannot believe this," Henry muttered.

Lucas folded his arms as he looked up at Henry, and Henry glared at him.

"Man, you’re going to have to teach me how to do that accent.  It sounds _so cool_ coming out of my mouth.”

"Lucas!" Henry snapped.  He grabbed up the syringe and thrust it at Lucas.  "Just draw another blood sample from yourself and give it to me.  Quietly."

"Righty-ho, boss."

 

*****

_**JO AND HENRY BODYSWAP** _

"Oh my god, Henry, no no no no -"

Jo’s litany was a terrified high-pitched whine.  He’d always hated how his voice cracked when he panicked, and under Jo’s control it seemed it was no different.  Still strange to hear the cadence of her voice from his mouth, however.

She leaned on him, crushing him into the pavement to try and stem the blood.  No use, the knife had definitely nicked an artery, and in less than a minute the world was already dimming.

"I’m going to die in someone else’s body," he muttered, the sound of Jo’s voice filling his head, resonating in strange ways.  "I’m finally going to die."

"You’re not dying!"

His own worried face filled his vision.  Jo had never gotten the hang of shaving, and five days later he had a full-fledged beard growing, just like the fashion of young boys roaming the streets of New York, who looked they’d just rolled in from a logging camp.

"I know what dying feels like, Jo," he said with a giddy laugh.  "I’ve done it enough."

"What?  No, Henry."

"Sorry I’m taking your body with me."

"Jesus, what - oh my god, Henry.  You can’t leave me.  You can’t die - _I_ can’t die!  I mean -  what do I do?  Henry?  Henry!”

He never thought he’d see Jo lose her composure, but apparently watching your colleague bleed to death in your own body was the tipping point.  He couldn’t blame her, honestly.

He felt a little bad for being enthralled by the idea he’d actually die this time.

"It’ll be alright.  Talk to Abraham.  He’ll explain."

Five days, and immortality had never come up.  And he was leaving it to Abe.  Not such a great fatherly move, leaving a terrified woman in his charge.  Henry remembered those first ten years - they hadn’t been fun.  He couldn’t do anything about it though, he was fading fast.

"Sorry, Jo.  I’m - "

Dark.  A flash.

Oh the water was _cold_ in January.  Henry struggled with limbs the wrong shape and length, kicking, and breaching the surface.

He was _alive_.

He hadn’t been this shocked to be alive in…well, in two hundred years.

He looked down into the black water.  Yes, still naked.  He was almost getting used to the sight of a woman’s body when he looked down, and he had no idea what to make of that.  This wasn’t something he ever thought he’d have to get used to.

First things first - out of the water, to safety.  Then find Jo.  Then…   No, far too many things to think about now.  Those two first, then the rest.

Henry started swimming for shore.

 

*****

_**Pacific Rim AU where Jo is a Jaeger pilot** _

The heavy door slammed, and Jo heard the guard lock it from the other side.  In the corner, Henry was a miserable heap, leaning against the corner of the room with his face in his hands.

He said nothing as she stood there, waiting.

Nothing like having your co-pilot try to make a runner the night before your first test.  Made a girl feel special.  Apparently he’d had to be knocked out before they could get him back.

Henry lifted his head finally.

"I’m sorry, Jo.  I didn’t…I couldn’t.  I can’t."

Jo crossed over and sat next to him, leaning on the wall at his side.

"It’s not easy for me either.  I get it, Sean was my husband as well as my partner, and when he died…"  She dodged the memories, knowing well enough by now how not to get lost down that particular rabbit hole.  "I understand.  But you’re not going to get through Abigail’s loss if you don’t try to move on."

Husband and wife teams weren’t that common, and its what spurred some idiot in the upper echelons to stick them together in the first place.  That they’d turned out to be drift compatible was a shock to them both.  She was fairly certain Henry thought he’d manage to get out of this by not matching anyone in the fleet.

If she were honest, she’d thought the same.  Meeting Henry, though, had given her some hope.  She liked the job, and the idea of working with him made getting through the days a little easier.

"She knew things about me, Jo."  Henry leaned his head back on the wall and closed his eyes.  "Things I haven’t told anyone."

"I’m not going to judge you.  We’re all a little screwed up," she said.  "Me included.  It’s just part of drifting - first time’s a little weird."

He opened his eyes and rolled his head to look at her, a small smile finally cracking his face, and then it faded away again.  He bit his lip as he looked her over, and then took a deep breath.

"Jo.  Can I trust you?"

"Yeah, of course."  She didn’t hesitate.  She trusted him already, for whatever reason, and you didn’t climb into thousands of tons of metal with someone you didn’t plan to defend to the death, no matter what.

His hands were shaking, but he nodded.

"I have something to tell you.  It’s a long story…"

 


	21. AU Interludes #3

_**WEREWOLF AU …..BECAUSE WEREWOLVES** _

Henry was sweating profusely by the time Abe screeched to a halt in the car.  Henry staggered from where he was braced against the building wall and dove for the car.

"Put me in the trunk," he gasped through the window.  "I don’t know if we’ll make it home, I can’t be in the cab with you."

Abe leapt out of the car and scrambled to get the hatch open. 

"Jeez, Henry, you left it to the last minute."

"I know - "  he clenched against a spasm of pain, throwing a leg into the open trunk.  "I was caught at the crime scene, and I couldn’t get away, and then - augh!"

Another bolt of pain, bones rearranging themselves, adrenaline surging and fuzzing out logical thought. 

"In, in!"

Abe shoved at him, getting him in the trunk and arranging his spasming limbs so he could close the hatch again, and Henry was shut in the dark, barely hearing the roar of the engine as they took off.

He hoped and prayed he could make it to the store’s basement lockup before full moon hit.

 

******

 _ **Ghost AU, where Henry is a ghost who has a solid form during the day, but as soon as the sun sets, then he's a regular ghost.**_  
  
He knew it was probably inappropriate, given they were colleagues - friends, now - but after the day spent in her company going from crime scene to interview, riding in the car and enjoying Jo’s company, chattering on about the crime, he wasn’t ready for it to be over. 

Even in the summertime with the blessedly longer days, when the sun set and he faded with the light, with extra hours to enjoy life with people, he wasn’t ready.

He followed her home, hovering on her stoop indecisively before stepping across the threshold to follow her in.  Two hundred years warped a man's sense of boundaries, when there was no one to see him, to care what he did or tell him where he could or could not go.  The night hours were long and dreary, and the idea of spending time in her company, whether she could see him or not, was too strong to resist.

He hadn't been lonely in years, not felt that pull, and yet after meeting her, it had surged back.  Her presence was like the light that brought him back to life every morning, but her absence left the same hole.  He almost wished he hadn't met her.

She turned with a frown on her face as he breezed past her, eyes sharp and darting.  She backpedaled and poked her head out the door to look around, then came back in and shut the door.

Henry stood in the hall, frozen.  Had she seen him?

"Jo?" he said softly.

Jo paused in the middle of pulling off her coat and looked up and around, brow furrowed.  He repeated the call, but she didn't respond again, just shaking her head and hanging up her coat, then pulling her hair back and tying it back with an elastic from her pocket.

She'd heard him.  For a moment, she’d heard him.

Henry turned and fled, flickering through the door, his mind reeling.

_She'd heard him._

 

*****

_**AU where mortinez is canon** _

Jo walked into the morgue, pulling her flip notebook from her pocket.  She'd get the ME's unofficial sign-off on the train conductor's cause of death, and then she was going to find the biggest cup of coffee and a bottle of advil and hide at her desk.

"Lucas hand me the - "

That voice.  Oh no.  No, this could not be happening.

Henry looked up at her from the open chest of the train conductor's body, hand outstretched to his assistant.  He dropped his hand and straightened.

"Jo?"

Well, at least he looked just as tired and hungover as she did, and sounded just as surprised.  That was something.  But he was an ME? The ME on _her_ case? How was that even fair?

"You, ah, forgot the eyeliner under your left eye," he blurted, then winced.

She wiped at her eye.

"Yeah, thanks."

Maybe if they'd spent more time talking the night before, she'd have noticed he was a dick - but when she met him at the bar, he'd been cute, she'd been drunk, and neither of them had been that interested in talking.

...or ever seeing each other again.  Didn't look like that was in the cards.

"So, uh, I came to see if you had a cause of death on the train conductor."  She gestured towards the body with her notepad, avoiding the ribcage as best she could and swallowing down her writhing stomach.

"Oh, yes."  Henry reached a hand into the body and scooped out a handful of foam and held it up to her.  She tried not to gag.  "I believe he was poisoned."

She couldn't help the double-take.

"Wait, what?"

 

*****

_**Henry and Jo stumble upon Narnia while investigating a crime scene AU** _

A loud thump came from the second floor of the old house, followed by Henry’s startled yelp.  Jo pulled her gun. 

"Henry?  Everything okay up there?"

"Yes, I think so!"  His voice echoed down the staircase. "But perhaps you should come up here."

"What’s the problem?"

"It seems a pair of anthropomorphic beavers have stumbled out of the closet and wish to know if we’ve seen a Mr. Tumnus."

She sprinted up the stairs and around the corner, almost skidding out on the landing as she dashed for the upstairs bedroom where Henry had been searching.

"Henry, what the hell - "

She tumbled to a halt when Henry looked up at her, waving a hand in the direction of two very large beavers on hind legs, holding hands and looking at her with beady black eyes.

"Yes, a Mr. Tumnus.  Have you seen him?  Only we’ve got a very important message," one grunted with a low and gruff voice, and the other made agreeing noises, tiny and squeaking as she nodded.

"Uh," Jo said.

"Yes, rather,"  Henry agreed.

She could already see how difficult the report was going to be for this case.

 

*****

_**Golden Compass AU** _

Henry followed the screams down into the basement.  The hospital was empty; eerily so, and he’d heard the faint howl from floors above when putting on his coat to leave for the night. 

Eilam skittered around to Henry’s other shoulder, tiny arm wrapping around Henry’s throat as he chattered with his squeaky gibbon voice, sharing Henry’s uneasiness as the cries grew clearer the lower they descended.

Along the hallway, to a nondescript door, behind which the pitiful cries were growing weaker.  He took a breath and pushed it open.

On a table, strapped down, a young man.  Next to him, his daemon, a small cat, lay quivering on the ground.  One of the doctors nearby held a shining silver saw, poised over them, over the bond between them.

"What are you doing?" Henry blurted.

The doctor turned in surprise, a mask covering his face.  Henry didn’t know if it was someone he knew from upstairs, or a stranger.  The man lowered the blade and pointed.

"Get him out of here."

Hands grabbed him.  Two men standing at the door that he hadn’t seen.  On his shoulder, Eilam screeched, leaping away and scurrying, and Henry fought to tear himself loose, and the doctor turned from him.  The young man, still a teen, screamed.

"No, please!  Help me, please!"

"What are you doing to that boy?"  Henry managed to free himself and made a leap for the table and the doctor’s arm.  "Stop it!"

The doctor turned the blade on him, trying to fend him off, while the two men joined in the fray.  It was a blur, a whirl of activity, Eilam trying to help with tiny sharp teeth, at one point clinging to Henry’s chest in terror.  He was terrified too; he didn’t understand what was happening, only that it had to stop.  He had to stop it; the feel in this room, it was unholy.

Something numbed him through his chest, then a growing heat, and he looked down.

The blade.  Through his chest.  Eilam, clinging to him, it was through them both.

"No," he breathed.  "What…"

He dropped, pinned to his daemon, the others backing from him. 

Everything faded.

What surprised him more than the blade was waking up fighting his way to the surface of a lake.  Eilam, flopping miserably in the water beside him, made a grab for him.

"Ouch!  Watch the claws!" he cried as Eilam’s little hands and feet clutched at his shoulder, trying to get above the water and onto Henry’s head.

His naked shoulder. 

What the hell was going on?

 

*****

_**Henry and Jo with their jobs switched** _

"Seriously, creepiest guy I’ve ever met," Jo said, dropping into her seat.  "You have no idea.  He stuck his face in the chest cavity like it was no big deal."

"Jo, that is what we do every day," Hanson pointed out.  "Cut ‘em up, measure ‘em, bag and tag.  We are not exactly in a position to judge a man for being comfortable with dead bodies."

"Yeah, but we are trained for this stuff.  What kind of guy just likes dead bodies as a hobby?  I get that detectives are around them a lot, but I have never met a person that is cool with dead people unless they were really, really wrong in the head."

Hanson straightened in his seat as she talked. 

"Uh, Jo," he whispered urgently.

"Quite right, Doctor Martinez," came the bright, clipped voice from behind her.  "An unusual comfort with death is usually a sign of a disturbed or traumatized individual.  Perfectly natural you should be concerned."

Jo shot Hanson a dirty look for leaving her out to dry and not giving her more warning about Detective Morgan’s approach from behind her.  Hanson shrugged, hiding his face in his cup of coffee.  Jo turned, an apologetic look on her face.

"When I said ‘wrong in the head,’ I meant - "

"No problem, I’ve heard worse,"  Morgan assured her.  "Now, I hear you have an autopsy report for me?"

 

*****

_**Henry & Adam as the Doctor and the Master** _

"What happened to you, Adam?" Henry whispered.  "What did I do to you?"

"You left," Adam sneered. "Stole a TARDIS, just left without warning."

Henry swallowed.  It wasn’t a lie; he’d not given a thought to Adam, fighting not to drown under Prydonian expectations as much as Henry himself.  But Adam had worked the Academy system with such flawless manipulation, he’d not thought it would matter a whit to him that Henry wasn’t at his side.

He’d stolen the TARDIS and not looked back.  Five hundred years later, Adam wasn’t giving him a choice.  Henry rattled the chains binding him.

"You don’t want to do this," he said calmly.  "At least let Jo go.  She did nothing to you."

"Oh yes, your little human girls," Adam said, tucking his hands behind his back, standing just out of Henry’s reach.  "Haven’t you tired of playing with them yet?  Not learned your lesson after Abigail?"

The surge of guilt was too much; it curdled to anger, and Henry yanked at the chains with a snarl.

"You don’t get to say her name," he growled.

"Oh, Henry.  You’re too easy," Adam said with a sigh.  "It’s not even a challenge any longer."

 

*****

_**Ghostbusters AU** _

"Stop!  Augh - Lucas, stop!"

The cry was followed by pained noises, and Lucas’ prolonged howl.  Jo and Hanson looked at each other in alarm and scrambled up from the lounge couch to race into the main testing chamber.

Lucas had the particle stream directed into the face of a naked man, who was frantically shielding his face from the blinding light. With a last war-like cry, Lucas chucked the ghost trap at him and stomped on the pedal, opening the doors.

"Put that away!" snapped the man, his voice crisp and sharp.  "You’re blinding me!  For god’s sake man, I told you I’m not a ghost!"

"It’s not doing anything, Lucas! He’s human!"  Jo yelled, and ran to pull Lucas back.  She stomped on the pedal and closed up the box, and ripped the particle gun from Lucas’ hands.

"He’s - but - but look!"

"Well holy shit,"  Hanson said, sounding stunned.  "Doc, we thought you were dead!"

Everything was still for a moment as Henry blinked at them, trying to clear his blinded vision.

"Henry, you are really, really naked right now," Jo pointed out.

"Yes, about that.  We need to have a talk," he said grimly.  "As soon as I find some clothes."

 

 


	22. Henry & Adam:  Blood

Adam pulled Henry to sitting and then sat behind him, propping himself against the wall with Henry in his arms. Henry hadn’t an ounce of energy to spare, so cold and tired and faint from loss of blood. He lay limp against Adam’s chest, and Adam shuffled his numb limbs around until he was cradled against him, head on Adam’s shoulder. 

He was bleeding to death, and Adam decided the thing to do was bandage him up and go in for a cuddle. What a night. He choked on a laugh.

“There you go, good attitude,” Adam said calmly, and gave his arm a squeeze. “Keep your chin up.”

He was so tired, so cold, barely aware of the rise and fall of Adam’s chest against him, and yet life dragged on. He hadn’t lost enough blood to die—certainly not soon. He could lie here all night waiting, if Adam let him.

“Please,” he whispered. “End it.”

“And aren’t we lucky,” Adam said, “that we can ask a question like that, you’ll end and start again. Good as new." He snapped his fingers to emphasize the point, close to Henry’s nose.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s the only time we get to talk.” Adam’s voice was reasonable, painfully so. “The rest of the time you’re too busy shouting all kinds of platitudes and strutting like a moralistic peacock to listen to a word I say. I’ll hand it to you, Henry, you’ve kept your energy up over the years.”

Adam was petting his head like he was a small child or a dog. Henry was so tired, too tired to be afraid anymore, and despite everything, the action was soothing him. This was definitely in the top ten strangest deaths he’d experienced.

“What do you want from me?”

Adam picked up Henry’s hand. He manipulated Henry’s fingers, running his thumb over his palm, along each finger, examining it in thorough detail.

“Two thousand years, give or take a few centuries,” Adam said quietly. “Do you know what that’s like? I suppose you will eventually. Maybe then you’ll understand.”

Henry had nightmares about long distant futures, trying to survive in a world that resembled nothing he knew. The twentieth century had been a terrifying stagger into a new world, always feeling three steps behind the way the world was racing forward into new ways. 

“Nothing new under the sun, Henry. People ever the same, coming and going with plodding, boring predictability. And then you.”

Adam tipped his head back, and Henry could see his face now. He had an affectionate smile, warm and directed at Henry. Adam touched his jaw, ran a finger over the bridge of his nose along his eyebrow to his temple. It was possessive, intimate, as though Henry was his to play with at his leisure. He was too tired and numb to even flinch, and instead he closed his eyes. There was nothing he could do but hope he would die soon. 

“But you make it so difficult, Henry.”

“Your approach could use some work,” Henry murmured. “We could have been friends. It didn’t have to be like this.”

Adam tucked Henry’s head back on his shoulder. 

“Perhaps I’ve lost some of my subtlety over the years. But anyway. Tell me about the first time you died.”

“If I do, will you kill me?”

“Maybe.”

He was so tired and cold. Maybe he’d pass out and he’d at least not be aware of this intolerable situation. He waited hopefully for a minute, but no such luck. Just Adam’s quiet, patient calm.

A maybe was better than a no.

“Very well,” he sighed. “I was on a ship headed for America…”


	23. The Morgan Family:  Tumblr Flash Prompts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of Morgan Family prompts, thrown together into a semi-canonical timeline.

**1945**

Henry tucked his hands into his heavy coat and reached for the boiling pot off the fire the relief crew had built in the middle of the camp.  He shuffled it over to the nursing station as quickly as possible without slopping the water over, and poured a bit into the cold water waiting in the tin tub.  He tested it, then carefully added a splash more.  Another test—perfect.

He drifted over to the nurses clustered together, and they made space for him, enough that he could join the little clutch of people admiring the tiny little baby.  Anyone who wasn’t busy handling the horrors around them had their full attention on the child, as though the bright and shining life he exuded could mask the stench, the death, the incomprehensible evil all around them.

"May I take him?"  Henry asked quietly, and the blonde nurse—Abigail, she’d said earlier— nodded and handed him the bundle.  He smiled at the little boy, at the round cheeks windburned from the cold, and the child offered him a gummy smile in return.  "Come on, little one.  Time for a bath."

He sheltered the boy from the wind, unwrapping the dirty cloth, and popped the little body into the water before he had a chance to grow cold.  The baby’s eyes grew round, his little mouth a perfect ‘o’ of surprise, and Henry laughed with delight.  A tiny arm flailed and splashed, and the baby blinked as drops of water landed on his face.

Henry looked up as movement registered in the corner of his vision, and Abigail was at his side.  She crouched down and held out her hand, offering him something.  It was a small, wooden doll, crudely made, with fading colours obviously hand-painted on.

"My niece gave it to me before I left.  I keep it in my pocket.  But perhaps it will make a suitable bath toy, for now."

Henry nodded, watching as Abigail offered it to the baby, making it splash in the water until he reached a curious, chubby hand to close around it.  Henry found that his cheeks ached from smiling.

He hadn’t smiled since he’d come to this place, and yet in the midst of it all—bath time.

The world never ceased to surprise him.

 

***

**1946**

Henry only had time to set down his bag and take off his hat and coat before Abe toddled around the corner and barrelled into his legs. 

"Hello, Abraham!"  Henry scooped Abe up into his arms and planted a kiss on his cheek.  "I missed you too."

"Monkey!"  Abe cried, and brandished the little stuffed toy at Henry.  "Monkey!"

"Yes, monkey," Henry agreed with a laugh, gently pushing the toy aside from where Abe was shoving it in his face with great determination. 

It was already damp with drool from where Abe had shoved it in his mouth, soothing the teeth that were pushing their way through his gums.  At sixteen months, Abe’s vocabulary was impressive, and he was a constant chatterbox. 

Abigail’s face appeared around the corner, looking pale and haggard, and a little desperate.

"Don’t say it," she hissed.  "It’ll encourage him."

Henry set Abe on his hip, and Abe set to chewing the tail of his toy once again.  Henry frowned at Abigail in confusion.

"Say what?"

"The ‘m’ word."

He shook his head, then looked down at Abe again, and back to her. 

"Wait—what, monkey?"

"Monkey!" Abe howled, pulling the toy from his mouth.  "Monkey monkey monkey—"

Abigail looked like she would either throw something at him or cry.

"Twelve hours, Henry.  Twelve _bloody_ hours of a steady litany of ‘monkey,’ and you’ve _set him off again_.”

Henry stared at her in confusion, and Abigail glared at him.

"I’m…sorry?" he said slowly, then set Abe down to continue his quiet monkey monologue.  "Perhaps you should go for a walk?  Take a break?"

"Monkey!"  Abe shrieked, and waved the toy aloft like a sword.

Abigail closed her eyes, and then opened them with a fixed, glazed smile. 

"Yes, I believe I shall do that."

 

***

**1946**

They could hear the screams as soon as they made it to the landing of their floor, hoarse little wails coming down the hallway.

"I guess he didn’t get over it, then," Abigail remarked dryly as they made for their door.

Henry leaned over and kissed Abigail’s cheek.

"At least we had a nice dinner."

"There’s that," Abigail agreed.  She paused with her hand on the door, and they both winced as Abe cut loose with another pitiful wail.  She looked up at Henry with a defeated air.  "You realize this means Susan will never babysit again.

"I know, I know," Henry said, rolling his eyes.  He gestured towards the door.  "Alright, let’s face the music."

Abigail cracked the door and they went in to rescue Susan from the air raid siren that was their squalling child.

 

***

**1947**

"Well, it’s…"

Henry scratched his head, looking for the right word.  Abe looked up at him, and Henry gazed into his innocent blue eyes, then looked at the two little fists clutching crayons, and then back at the wall.

Abigail caught up with him, and rounded the corner to see them in the hallway.

"What did Abe want? Is—oh my word."

Abe pointed to the crayon all over the wall, scrawled in the vague outlines of crude stick figures.

"Mommy, Daddy, Abe."  He named them one by one in his tiny two year old lisp, then turned back to them, a hopeful smile on his face.  He held up the crayons to Henry.  "Daddy draw?"

Henry pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Abe, let’s have a talk, love, about paper."

 

***

**1951**

Henry picked up the little crumpled scraps of pink paper surrounding the living room couch, suppressing a flutter of irritation at Abe’s carelessness.  The boy could track his enthusiastic art projects from one end of the house to the other in his single-minded focus, no matter how much he and Abigail prompted him to keep it to his small art space in the corner of his room.

Henry caught sight of Abe’s scrawled, seven-year-old printing on one piece, and smoothed it out, curious to see the progress of his letters.  Each month he showed leaps and bounds of progress.  It was past time, Abe’s printing had been barely legible until recently, though Abigail continuously reminded Henry that such things take time, always different for each child.

_Pleas be mine, valuntine._

Henry read the small note, a smile growing on his face.  The note had several letters scribbled over with heavy black marks, as though Abe had tried to fix mistakes.  He took another from the wad in his hand and opened it up.  The same note again, similar scratchings to cover wrong letters.  All the papers were similar, and it became clear that Abe had been practicing the note, trying to get it perfect.  Henry broke into a grin, picturing Abe’s head bent over the paper as he slaved away.

Of course it would take a girl to get Abe to practice his handwriting.  Abe had only started school two years prior, and already Henry had lost track of the number of little schoolboy crushes Abe had come home with, stars in his eyes as he talked about his friends, that they were getting married, that he was definitely in love.

Abigail despaired at it, but Henry had to admit he found it rather sweet.  Not so different from his own youth, if memory served.

Henry smoothed out one of the tidiest versions and folded it neatly to tuck it in his pocket.  He would have to show Abigail when she was home later.

 

***

**1954**

"But…what do I say?  What do I do?"

Abe stared at Henry with large, earnest eyes, hands stuffed into his pockets and toes turned inwards as though he could shrink into himself with embarrassment.  Henry cocked his head to the side as he considered his son with a smile.  Ten years old and asking for advice on girls. He chuckled, and Abe turned beet red.

"Well, here’s the secret, Abraham,"  Henry said, and Abe perked up, attentive.  Henry beckoned him closer, lowering his voice and making a show of glancing around the empty kitchen, as though he didn’t want anyone to hear.  Abe was lured in, completely caught by Henry’s show.  Henry leaned close and said in a hushed tone.  "Women are people, just like you and me.  Treat them with the same respect you’d show any of your friends, and you’ll do fine."

Abe’s face crumpled, and then he rolled his eyes.

"Dad, come on."

Henry spread his hand and straightened, looking innocent.

"I swear!  It works."

"But that doesn’t tell me what to say.”

"No, it doesn’t.  But I have great faith you’ll work out the details just fine on your own."

He ruffled Abe’s hair and Abe gave him a doleful look as Henry turned away with a chuckle.

 


	24. Henry & Jo:  Tumblr Flash Prompts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of prompts about Henry and Jo. Last two are Mortinez (last one is mature).

"So Alana said she was on shift until three that morning, but that Melissa didn’t show up until—Henry?  Are you listening?"

He was still walking with her, but all she had was the back of his head.

"Mm-hm," he said absently.  "Late for her shift."

Jo looked past Henry to see two of the dancers practicing a routine.  One was doing a rather impressive leg lift, while the other was bent double and waving a very well-rounded posterior towards the audience.  Henry appeared to be giving them his full attention.

At least in some things, Henry was pretty average, she thought with a mental eye roll. Maybe she should have brought Hanson, even if he'd have spent the whole time staring at the floor.

She saw it coming about a second before it happened, and she was about to call out a warning when Henry walked straight into a chair that was sticking out a bit from one of the tables.  His head snapped forward and his arms pinwheeled, but his balance was gone already.  He lurched forward over the chair and, eyes wide, hands making a grasp for the table edge and missing, he went down with a surprised cry.

By the time Henry got to his feet and brushed himself off, looking for all the world like a cat that had fallen off a table and was trying to pretend it had done it on purpose, Jo was doubled over and laughing so hard she thought she might throw up. 

Henry folded his arms and glared at her, but god she didn’t care.  This was the _best_.

 

***

"Henry, I honestly don’t care.  We’re stuck here until someone unlocks the courtyard, so go for it.  Whatever, go to the corner over there."

Henry’s fidgeting was getting on her nerves, and being stuck in the little tiny, grotty space between the four buildings that was the quirk of old Manhattan architecture was intolerable.  And the smell—well, frankly, Henry taking a leak in the corner wasn’t going to make it worse.

Henry grimaced, looking pained.  Jo sighed impatiently.

"Just get it over with," she huffed, sticking her cold hands in her pockets.  "It’s not like I’m going to watch."

"Fine," he said.  "But plug your ears."

"What?" she said, lifting an eyebrow.

"I wouldn’t call myself a prude, but I will admit, I can’t—er," he waved his hand in a vague, elaborate gesture, "if someone is listening."

She snorted.

"How do you handle public restrooms?"

"I don’t.  Hate the things." 

He wasn’t going to budge until she agreed, so she turned her face to the wall and plugged her ears.

"Alright, fine," she said loudly.  "Whatever helps you pee. Just make it quick, I feel like an idiot."

 

***

"There, see?  What did I tell you.  Bowen and Glister has been in communication this whole time about the theft."

Jo was at the back of his chair sipping her coffee as they watched the two men through the window of the cafe, and she made a little hum of agreement. 

"Fine, but I want to see this play out.  We’ve got Bowen coming in later this afternoon, and I want to give him enough rope to hang himself.  He’s waffling already, I’m sure I can get a confession out of him."

Henry scanned the area nearby where the two men were deep in conversation.  He was fairly certain he could get over there, around the side of the hot dog kiosk, and do a bit of eavesdropping—

"Oh no you don’t."  Jo’s hand dropped on the back of his neck.  "I can hear you thinking from here."

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he blinked rapidly.

"I—ah.  But I’m fairly certain I can—"

Her fingers squeezed lightly.

"Nope.  Stay put."

He had to work hard to keep his head from dropping forward.  God, it was ridiculous how that simple move never failed to completely disarm him.  If he didn’t want to completely embarrass himself in public he should probably shake her hand off, but the feel of her skin on his neck, the slightly cool circle of each finger, and her thumb tight against the soft point between his tendons, pressing—

Her fingers slid away, and a small, vocalized sigh escaped him.  He cleared his throat.  Oh dear.  He shifted in his chair, trying to reset himself, but his head was completely buzzing, his skin crawling with arousal.

"You alright?"  Jo asked, and he risked a glance up at her.  She was frowning down at him.

He managed an awkward smile.

"Yes!  Fine, thank you."

Her brows lowered as she squinted at him in confusion, then she returned her attention to the men across the street.

Henry drew his hands over his face and tried to calm himself.  Hell and damnation, this was incredibly unbecoming of a man his age.

 

***

Jo listened to the sounds of Henry puttering in the kitchen as he fixed coffee, and she stretched and rolled out of bed, grabbing up Henry’s robe.  He’d offered to let her leave one of her own here, but she wasn’t quite ready to admit how often she stayed at his place, and that she was slowly but surely earning herself a spot in his home—a toothbrush in the bathroom, a drawer for underwear and socks and a spare change of clothes in case she forgot them—and a bathrobe just seemed like a final bridge she wasn’t ready to cross.

She wandered down the hall and came into the kitchen, which was streaming with sunshine. Henry pressed the plunger on the french press, and he looked up when he heard Jo.  The sunbeams caught his wild hair and lit up the scruff on his face until it looked nearly red, and he smiled at her. 

"Sleep well?"

"Mm-hm," she said, and came over to him.

Abe was gone for three days, and they hadn’t done much but stay in and enjoy their time together.  Henry hadn’t shaved in that time, and what was normally short and tidy scruff was nearly a beard.  She put her hands on his cheeks and rubbed her hands down over his chin, the bristling whiskers softer now that he’d let them grow longer.

"A beard suits you," she said, and he grinned.

"The facial hair comes and goes over the years.  Beard, clean shaven, sideburns, mustache—"

"Oh my god, no," she laughed, drawing her thumbs along the top of his lip.  "You didn’t have a mustache."

"It was the fashion," he answered, and leaned in to kiss her.

The conversation was lost as the good morning kiss turned into more, Henry leaning into her and curving her back, putting a hand around her waist and pulling her close.

"Forget coffee," she murmured between kisses.  "Come back to bed."

"Sound plan," Henry agreed, leaving off with a soft nip at her bottom lip.

He pulled back and she took hold of his hand, pulling him behind her, and he chuckled, trailing willingly behind her.  He caught up with her and matched her step, body against hers, and hooked his fingers into the belt of his robe, tugging it until the front gaped.  Her step slowed as he ducked his head to kiss her neck, hands sneaking under the thin camisole she was wearing to smooth over her belly, and then his fingers dipped down to run under the band of her underwear.

Oh, they definitely weren’t making it to the bed.

In a smooth swivel she spun in his arms, grabbed hold of his shirt with two hands and pushed him up against the wall.  His eyes widened as he connected—harder than she’d intended, way harder—and she was about to apologize when his mouth dropped open and he gasped, his eyes nearly falling closed, and then he grabbed her.

His tongue was in her mouth, and he moaned, a hand coming down to pull her hips against him, and god, he was hard already.  Apparently Henry liked it a little rough.

Well, that was some useful information. 

"Bed," Henry panted, voice a low growl as he clutched at her hips, pressing her to him.  "Bed, now."

She grinned and let him take over pulling her down the hall.  



	25. Henry & Jo:  Drowning

The irony of drowning in the spot where he normally awoke after death was not lost on Henry.

The blow to the head had left him semi-conscious when he fell off the yacht, and he’d had all of a brief moment to think that the shoreline looked familiar before he stumbled and overbalanced off the side of the boat, Jo’s distant scream falling away to the familiar bubble of water and the cold slap.  He was stunned, arms and legs refusing to work with him, and he inhaled at the wrong time.

He hated drowning more than anything else.  Definitely number one on the list, whether it was the most painful or not.  When he broke the surface again, mercifully clear-headed but bloody cold, he swivelled his head around with a wholly new disorientation. 

He was exactly where he’d died.

Not fifty feet distant, the yacht was arcing around to come back towards him, and he tread water, holding still as it circled in close.

"Henry!" 

He could hear Jo calling his name, shouting out over the water.  He lifted an arm and waved, teeth chattering, and the boat engine quieted and it drifted alongside him.  He swam towards the rear and caught hold of the ladder and pulled himself up. 

Feet pounded from the bow towards him.

"Henry!  Thank god you’re—   What the _hell._ ”

Jo screeched to a halt, mouth open, as Henry covered himself and shivered in the night air.

"Our suspect is incapacitated, I take it?"  Henry said through chattering teeth.

"Uh—yeah.  I managed to knock him out and handcuff him to the railing in the cabin."  She looked away from him, then back again, like she was expecting to see something different when she did.  "You’re naked. Why are you naked?”

“My clothing would have dragged me down,” he said, as though it were obvious.  “I took it off to avoid drowning.”

“Your underwear was going to make you drown?”

He shrugged.

"I wasn’t going to take any chances.”

Jo nodded hesitantly, then looked him up and down again before shaking her head and jerking her head over her shoulder.  

“I, uh.  Okay then.  Let’s find you a…  Towel?  A bedsheet?  Something.”

“Thank you.”

Henry followed her towards the yacht cabins, far too cold to drum up any concern about anything other than getting warm.


	26. Henry & Abigail: Henry likes to talk [mature]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this one is mature.
> 
> From a tumblr prompt: Henry is very vocal during sex.

Abigail learned early on that so long as her mouth was occupied, Henry’s wouldn’t stop babbling.

It was funny at first, when she’d kissed her way down his chest and belly, nuzzling the soft hairs over hot and sweaty skin and pausing to lick and suck here and there, to hear him groan as though he was almost in pain.  But when she’d timidly kissed the length of him—oh, she really had no idea what she was doing, but he’d rather enthusiastically done the same to her, and the principle of it seemed straightforward enough—he’d gasped a choked _'oh dear god_ ' and clutched her shoulder with a tense hand, and it was the most incredible sound she’d ever heard him make.

It became a steady litany from that point on of _oh yes please that don’t stop more Abigail I swear you’re going to kill me yes oh I’m—_ until his hips lifted off the bed and he’d let out a cry so loud that the painting on the hotel wall next to the bed bounced as their neighbour pounded on the other side, angry Italian being shouted out at them, muffled but audible, and very, very irritated.

They’d rolled on the bed laughing until there were tears in their eyes, and then Henry had gotten a wicked gleam in his and pinned her down, swearing he was going to make sure he thanked her properly for such a thoroughly well done job.


	27. Henry & Jo:  "You Came Back"

He waited twelve hours at her door, feeling like a fool the whole time.  He left long enough to get himself a warm coffee and a croissant, and then returned to camp out.  If he gave up now, he was going to lose his nerve.

It wasn’t until sundown that he saw her coming around the corner, her hands shoved deep in her coat pockets and head down staring at the foot of sidewalk in front of her.  He gulped down his nerves and stood, ready to face her.

She was in the gate before she looked up and saw him standing there, and she stumbled to a halt.  She gaped at him, her house keys in one hand.

"Hello, Jo."  He tried to smile, but it wouldn’t come.

"You came back."  She took a few steps closer.

Henry took a deep breath and descended the stairs to meet her at the bottom, watching her carefully as she tracked his movements, scanning him over. 

"I came back."  

She shook her head, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion, and she waved her hand around, her keys jingling as she did.  

"Your letter said the move was permanent."  She frowned, and her expression darkened.  "And since your letter was the only goodbye I got, I figured it was true."

Henry nodded slowly, and then closed his eyes with a wince when he couldn’t bear looking at her disapproving expression any longer.  It had been a year since he’d seen her, and still she could cut a hole straight through him.

"I’m sorry.  There were…"  he took a deep breath and straightened, deciding to stick to his story.  "Family complications.  They’re sorted now."

The lawyer who’d threatened to expose Henry, to use Abe as leverage against him if Henry didn’t turn himself over for testing, had tried to chase Henry down, but they’d fled.  Mysteriously, a note had arrived that the man had died in a plane crash.

Signed, Adam.  Included had been the lease agreement for the building, slated to end within the month, and two plane tickets back to New York.  He and Abe had held them for all of two days before deciding that they would return to the city that was their home.

No doubt Adam had killed the man, and his odd obsession with Henry was frightening at best, but Henry couldn’t stay away.

His old life called him back.  

And now, he would try to get it back.  The first step:  Jo.

"The new haircut suits you.  Very becoming."  Her hair was cut shorter, curling around her face, and he drew a line around his face to indicate the line of her hair. "Emphasizes your cheekbones."

"Really?" she said, raising an eyebrow.  "You’re going to try and get out of this by complimenting me on my hair?"

"If it works, I’ll do anything," Henry said, and the desperate sincerity of the sentiment leaked into his words.  "Jo, I’m sorry.  I truly am."

Jo pursed her lips, and it was another two seconds before her shoulders dropped and she pulled him into a hug, wrapping her arms around him.

"Dammit Henry, we were so worried."  She buried her nose in his shoulder and he hugged her back fiercely.  "I’m so glad you came home."

"Me too," he said, and his voice was hoarse.  "Me too."


	28. Henry & Jo:  "I'll Be Right Over"

She was sick of it.  She’d called the shop at least five times and spoken to Abe three of them—and no, Henry still wasn’t in, he’d have her call as soon as he was back—and there was still no ME at her crime scene three hours later, and the security for the high-rise tower was breathing down her neck to wrap up the crime scene so they could let their high-powered overdressed lawyers start crawling all over this.

By the time Henry called, she was ready to murder a few people herself.

"For god’s sake Henry, _get a cell phone._ ”

"I was only out for two hours," Henry said primly.  "That the world should require a greater turnaround on my time than that is unacceptable.  I refuse to be at the beck and call of some gibbering electronic device."

"How about at the beck and call of your job?"  Jo snapped.

Henry was silent for a moment, and then a sigh.

"A rough day, Detective?"

She swallowed down any further snide comments and tried to recognize the overture of peace for what it was.  She was being unfair, though Henry had said they could call today, he was working from home.

"Yeah, this is an ugly one.  I could really use you, if you can make it."

"I’ll be right over."

"Great, thanks."  

She hung up the phone and tucked it into her pocket, walking back into the office where Hanson was still staring at the body draped over the desk with a knife sticking out of its back.  He turned to her with wide eyes, and shook his head with a _tsk_ ing sound.

"Guess someone didn’t like getting fired."

"Har har," she grumbled, and then she sighed heavily, rubbing her forehead.  "This case is going to be hell. I can’t believe it.  Donald _fucking_ Trump.”


	29. Henry, Lucas & Jo:  "I Didn't Know You Could Sing"

"Relax into it,"  Henry said, positioning Lucas' shoulders so that they were dropped and easy.  "Let the note come out."

Lucas cleared his throat and tried again, the quavering note coming out long and unsteady.  Henry put a hand on Lucas' diaphragm and pushed.

"From here--you have to project from here," he moved his hand to Lucas' upper chest and tapped it with a finger, "not from here."

"Okay, okay," Lucas stuttered.

He drew another breath, trying again, and this time the note had more power, and was steadier.  Henry patted him on the back, and Lucas looked pleased at his efforts.

"Good work, I do believe you're improving.  That was positively recognizable as a steady D."

"Thanks, Doc.  I appreciate--oh, hi Detective Martinez, didn't see you there."

Lucas startled and Henry turned around to see Jo leaning against the doorway to the morgue fridge room, arms crossed and an amused smirk on her face.

"I didn’t know you could sing,” she said to Lucas, and Lucas shook his head vigorously.

"Oh, I can't, but Henry here is helping me out."  He cleared his throat.  "There's this girl, and she figures we should audition for community choir together, so I'm going to...uh...well..." He trailed off when he saw Jo's raised eyebrow, and made a weak laughing noise.  "It's a long story and I should get back to work and let you two do the thing."

He scurried from the room, ducking past her and fleeing his embarrassment.  Henry shook his head.

"Someday that boy will be able to get through at least one conversation without either blathering or mentioning his horror comics,"  he said.

"Graphic novels," Jo said dryly.  "They're graphic novels."  Henry rolled his eyes, and Jo chuckled.  "Anyway, I've got a case I need your opinion on, if you've got time between singing lessons."

"Of course," Henry said.  "Shall we head to my office?"


	30. Henry & Reece:  "I Can't Let You Do That"

"Please, Lieutenant Reece."

Henry was unable to hold still waiting for Reece's answer, and she wasn't about to hurry on his account.

"I can't let you do that," she drawled, leaning back in her chair.  "The answer is no."

"I would consider it a favour."

"You'll have to live with it, Doctor.  You make your bed, you lie in it."

Henry grimaced, looking out her office window, and back to her.

"I told you, it's a medical condition.  It can't be helped."

"Then perhaps this will encourage you to get on purchasing those pyjamas we talked about," Reece said, folding her arms.  "But the answer is still no, you may not take it down."  She followed his gaze out the window to where the life-sized photo of his dripping wet mug shot had been taped to the detectives' bullpen wall.  "Besides, I kind of like it.  Brightens the place up."

He stared at her, and when she only stared back at him stone-faced, he eventually sighed and rubbed his hands over his face and stood, surrendering to the inevitable.

While this was definitely more embarrassing than the speedos, the thunderous applause when he left her office was definitely just as enthusiastic.


	31. Henry & Jo:  "It's Okay to Cry"

Jo carefully held the uninjured portion of Henry's hand and examined it.  The burn was bad, but at least it was contained to just his hand.  Could have been much worse, given how the suspect had been waving that blow torch around.

And how Henry had thrown himself at the man with little regard for his own safety.  Damn he was an idiot sometimes.  She looked at his face to see how he was doing.  His head was tipped back against the wall, eyes screwed shut and sweat popping out on his brow.  She could attest that deep burns like this hurt like a bitch; the scar from when Henry had lit her hand on fire was still there, and it had smarted for ages until it healed up.

"You know, it's okay to cry," she said.  It'd be another few minutes until the ambulance was here with some pain relief.  "I promise I won't tell anyone and go ruin your macho image."

Henry bared his teeth and choked out a short laugh.

"I assure you, I've no problem expressing my emotions," he joked weakly, and she chuckled with him, trying to keep the mood light.

"Okay, hang in there."  She cocked her head, and just faintly could hear the start of sirens in the distance.  "I think they're almost here."

"Yes.  I hear it too."  He opened his eyes and looked at her.  "Thank you."

"You know we're going to talk about this, right?"  She gently set Henry's hand down on his knee, palm up so the burn wasn't jostled.  "You can't keep doing things like this."

"I know," he said, voice tight.  "I know."

She sighed.  There was absolutely no repentance in his voice, and certainly no apology.  Henry was going to get himself killed someday if she didn't do something about his reckless behaviour, and fast.

Trouble was, she had no idea what to do.


	32. Henry & Jo:  "You Don't Need to Protect Me"

They were seated over drinks, Henry staring sullenly into his glass. He finally looked up at her with a deep frown.

How he could be looking at her with such frustration when she'd just saved his life, she'd never know.

"You don't need to protect me.  Jo, you could have been killed."

"And so could you," she pointed out, and when he straightened with a huffed breath of irritation she reached out and grabbed his arm.  "Seriously, Henry.  This isn't a joke."

He looked at her hand on his arm, and after a second covered it with his own, patting the back of it and then squeezing.  He looked like he wanted to say something, but his mouth hung open silently for several long seconds with nothing coming out of it.  She waited to see where his thoughts would go, but he finally blew out his breath in a great exhale and withdrew his hand and pulled his arm from his grasp.  He slid off the stool and stood next to the high bar table with an apologetic look towards her.

"I have to go, Jo.  It's late, and I'm sure Abe is waiting on me."

"Okay," she said quietly.  Whatever was going on in his head, he clearly didn't want to share.  And as much as she wanted to grab him and shake him until his teeth rattled and he started talking, she knew she wasn't going to get it from him tonight.  "Do you want me to drive you home?"

He shook his head.

"I think I'd rather walk."

"Right.  Okay, I'll see you tomorrow."

He nodded, avoiding her eyes, and was out of the bar in a flash, headed down the street with his head down and a frustrated expression on his face.  She wasn't sure if he was angry with her, or angry with himself, but it was definitely something.

She stared at Henry's untouched glass opposite her. 


	33. Henry & Jo:  "Can I Kiss You?"

"No, no, the victim was clearly…"  Henry twisted his head and upper body awkwardly, trying to demonstrate the position he’d been fruitlessly describing for the past two minutes, and Jo just shook her head.

"Sorry, Henry.  There is no physical way that’s where she was when she shot him.  The human body doesn’t bend that way."

"No, it’s possible, if the weight of the other person presses on the limbs like so."  He drew a line down his torso as he leaned back against the poolside bar at their murder scene.  "Come here."

"What?" She raised an eyebrow.  "What do you want me to do."

"Just lean on me.  Full weight. You’ll see."

She scoffed, but did as he said, standing on the small stool and draping across him.  Sure enough, the twist on his spine increased and he pressed back over the mini bar and his head tilted down towards the sink.

"Your head still isn’t under the tap," she pointed out.  "I don’t think he could have drowned her this way."

"Hm," Henry frowned, and he tucked his chin and looked up at her.  "You don’t have enough weight on my upper torso.  I believe he was probably kissing her.  That would get her the rest of the way."  He beckoned her with a lofty wave of his hand.  "Can you kiss me?"

"Can I kiss you?” she repeated in disbelief.  “Henry, I’ve heard a lot of lines, but this tops for most inventive.”

He rolled his eyes.  

"Just put your face down here.  I want to see if the weight on my upper body will get my head the rest of the way."  He narrowed his eyes.  "And quickly, if you don’t mind, my back is getting a little sore."

Jo shuffled up and lay the rest of her weight on him, her cheek pressing to Henry’s, and sure enough, their heads were in the sink.  

"There you go.  He leans over, turns on the sink, and the water goes right up her nose, she inhales, and she drowns out of the pool."

Henry turned his head and looked at her, and it abruptly occurred to her that they were in a rather compromising position.  It occurred to him at the same time, by the look on his face, and she hastily pushed herself up and off him.  He sat up, and quickly winced.

"You okay?" she asked, clearing her throat, hoping she wasn’t blushing as much as she felt like she was.

"I am definitely going to have a few bruises," he said, rubbing his back, but then he smiled widely.  "But we have our murder weapon.  It was the sink!"


	34. Henry & Lucas:  "I Did a Pregnancy Test"

There were good days in the morgue--more than there were a right to be, truthfully.  When you spent your day hacking up the various people who'd just died over the course of a day in New York, you'd think there'd be a few more grim moments. But for the most part, Lucas enjoyed his job.

Henry was pretty good to work for, even if he did demand a lot. He was inspiring, and much as Lucas might joke around with him, he sincerely made Lucas want to work harder.  He'd already learned more in the past three years than he'd learned in his five previous years with the Jersey ME's office, and the transfer here had been like winning the lottery. 

But days like today were not among the good days.  Through the glass, Lucas could see Henry on his side of the desk, hands folded.  With a deep breath, Lucas pushed the door open.

Henry looked up, and already Lucas knew he was expecting the worst.  And he was going to get it.

"I did a pregnancy test."  Lucas put the lab result printout on Henry's desk in front of him, and Henry slid it over to look at it.  "It was positive, like you thought."

Henry covered his eyes with his hand.

"Damn," he swore softly.  After a moment he straightened and looked up at Lucas.  "Do you know when the victim's husband is coming in?"

"Detective Martinez said he was coming around eleven."

Henry stood and shrugged off his lab coat, brushing past Lucas to hang it up. 

"Very well.  I'm going to go upstairs and speak with her now.  She should know we're breaking the news of the death of both his spouse and his future child before we begin."

"Good luck," Lucas said, and Henry gave him a faint nod of thanks, and was out the door.

Lucas picked up the printout again and added it back to the victim's file.

No, today was not one of the good days.


	35. Henry & Jo:  "Are You Drunk?"

"Ma’am, we need to ask you a few questions about your husband."

Jo glanced sidelong at Henry, who was standing at her side with his hands clasped at his back, as Mrs. Maldov braced herself on the doorway.  She looked pretty rough, and from the smell of her it’d been a long night.  She weaved unsteadily and nodded.

"Sure, whatever."  Maldov’s voice was slurred and heavy, and Jo frowned.

"Uh—was he home last night?"

Maldov squinted at her, then Henry, and shook her head.  Henry dropped his hands to his side as this motion set Maldov weaving.

"No.  No, he wasn’t—wasn’t…"

"Are you drunk?" Jo asked, leaning forward and bracing a hand on Maldov’s shoulder when she pitched to the side.  "Mrs. Maldov, have you been drinking?"

Without warning, Maldov’s knees gave out and her eyes rolled back in her head, and Henry leapt forward with Jo so both of them could catch her and ease her to the ground.  Henry leant forward and sniffed her breath after they laid her down on the ground.

"She’s not drunk—she’s gone into a diabetic coma."  He looked up at her, wide-eyed.  "Jo, call an ambulance."

Jo dug in her pocket for her cell and dialed 911.


	36. Henry & James:  "Come Home With Me"

James most likely thought he was being very subtle. Oh, to be fair, he was. A companionable arm around Henry’s shoulders as they talked, leaning close and chattering in his ear as they bantered back and forth, friendly back-slapping hugs and the fashionably European kiss on each cheek as both greeting and goodbye. 

All perfectly above-board, should Henry not reciprocate his interest. But Henry did, and had yet to make it clear, content to revel in James’ puppy-like affection.

Henry loved the chase, but the novelty of being pursued with such verve was flattering enough to appeal to his ego. He wasn’t above acknowledging that rather dubious fact, no matter what it said about his character. If a man had to live with himself as long as Henry had, he might as well be honest with himself. And attention—well, he thrived on it. Especially from one as pleasant and attractive as James.

He let James talk him into a night out, of manly adventures on the town, replete with blustering talk of wine, women, and song, and with an indulgent smile let himself be dragged out. 

But as the night wore on, it became less of the game, and he let himself enjoy James’ company for what it was. He liked the young man. He was sharp and witty, and had been the friend that Henry desperately needed in his return to New York. The change from nigh on a century in England had been a struggle, and James had taken it upon himself to naturalize his new pet Englishman to the American ways. It was a dismal failure, of course, Henry being set in his ways no matter how he tried to roll with the changes of the times, but both of them found amusement in the trying.

“Come on, Henry, loosen up,” was the constant refrain, and for James’ sake, for the sake of that boyish, devious grin, Henry tried. 

They stood at the edge of a dance floor, the two of them, deep in conversation and utterly uninterested in pursuing any of the ladies available for dancing, too wrapped up in their chatter to care. James had his arm slung around Henry, as he always seemed to do, his hand resting casually enough that no one could accuse him of purposefully resting his fingertips against the skin just above Henry’s collar.

It was distracting enough that by the end of a second dance they’d both ignored, several more drinks in than Henry had meant to be tonight, Henry was growing too aware of the flirtation. His impatience got the best of him, finally, and with a bit of mischief in his mind, he caught hold of James’ opposite shoulder and pulled him close, leaning to speak in his ear.

“Have we had enough of this yet?”

James pulled back a space to look at him askance, his smile puzzled, still looking for the game in Henry’s words, but not understanding it.

“What are you talking about, Henry?”

“This, this little dance. I assure you I’m interested.”

James paused long enough that Henry wondered if he’d pull away from him, but he licked his lips and cleared his throat, striving for a false casual air that he’d had, but lost like evaporating mist in the heat of the previous few seconds.

“Well, then. Well, that’s—I see.”

Henry grinned, and then chuckled at James’ uncharacteristic tongue-tied shyness. He put a hand to the back of James’ head and pulled him close, speaking in his ear. 

“Come home with me.”

James made a choked noise, and when Henry released him to check his expression, he looked almost scandalized.

“Henry Morgan, you are a shameless dog of a man,” James huffed, and then he broke into a smile and started to laugh, bumping against Henry’s side. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“Excellent. Then I suggest we do so now. I’m quite ready, if you are.”

“More than,” James said, and his smile change to something sweeter, more cautious, and infinitely more sincere. “Since we met.”

Henry felt as though he were seeing his friend anew. James pretended to be the open, carefree gadabout, but his true heart lay much deeper. Only now was Henry being given the chance to see it. 

Knowing the good man James was, he felt honoured to have been granted such trust. 

And then James stroked his fingers down the nape of Henry’s neck as he withdrew his hand, and Henry lost all such chivalrous thoughts, far more concerned with the ten minute walk he’d have to endure until they reached the privacy of his apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble is very loosely continued in the series [A Remarkable Resemblance](http://archiveofourown.org/series/270004)


	37. Henry & Adam:  "Do You Ever Think We Should Just Stop This?"

"Not again," Henry groaned.  "For the love of god, it's a big planet.  Find your own corner of it."

"Henry, we're old friends.  The least you could do is pretend to be happy to see me."  

Adam folded his arms and sat down in the lounger next to Henry.  Henry dropped the electronic newspad onto his lap and glared at the other immortal.

By now, he'd lost his fear of the insane man.  Adam had proved the worst he could do many times over, but he'd long since lost any leverage he had on Henry; Henry had been rootless since the mid-21st century, and in the end, the only way to his heart was through those he loved.

Two hundred years on, Henry was finding it quite easy not to give his heart away.  Once upon a time he might have felt concerned at that.  Now, it provided something of a relief, knowing he had a sort of invulnerability to any of the real hurt that could be inflicted.

"I think we're long past such niceties, don't you?" Henry said dryly.  "Now, I am waiting for my flight, and I would prefer to do so in peace."

"As you wish,"  Adam said with a shrug, but he didn't move.

Henry picked up the newspad and scrolled through the week's current events with only half his attention on it.  He missed the feel of real newsprint between his fingers, but such things had fallen out of fashion centuries past.  But the news was no distraction at all with Adam sitting at his side, and eventually he put the newspad down again and returned his attention to Adam with an impatient sigh.  The man was still staring at him, those same dead eyes having not changed over the years, no more than Henry's own outward appearance had.

"Do you ever think we should just stop this?" Henry demanded.  "This little game of cat and mouse?  There's nothing you have that I want, and I have nothing to offer you."

"Don't be so sure, Henry,"  Adam said.

The words were a distant echo of a time long past, and it took him a moment to sort through his fast-accumulating memories to pick it out--a graveyard, a book of names and numbers, and the answer to his long-dead son's biological family.  

Abraham.  Abraham Weinraub.  God, it had been so long since he'd thought of Abe, the dear sweet boy.  Henry's heart clenched, and he blinked at the frightening twist of emotion.  He'd become so good at putting that aside, at forgetting he had a heart at all.  

But perhaps he wasn't quite as good at this distant immortal ennui as Adam yet.  Not that he wanted to be like the sociopathic lunatic, but sometimes he wondered if that was the inevitable route he was on.  For now Henry was still human, but with each passing year, it was harder to know if that was still true.

"What could you possibly have," Henry asked, because the carrot was too hard to resist.  "After all these years?  What is so important that you think I'll care about it?"  

"An end, Henry."

Henry's breath stopped in his chest, and Adam looked at him.  Looked him in the eye, _really_ looked, with a sign of life that Henry had never seen.  

"What do you mean?"  Henry breathed quietly.

"I think I've found an end, Henry.  I think we can die."


	38. Henry & Lucas, the M.E. BROTP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of short Lucas and Henry based prompt fills.

_**Lucas starts wearing scarves** _

  
Henry politely turned a blind eye when Lucas started showing up with the gaudy accessories at first.    
  
When Abe was six, he’d gone through a period of insisting on wearing Henry’s ties and trying to emulate his father’s walk, pretending to be a doctor and asking his toys with great seriousness to cough while he palpated their stuffed chests.  Lucas, in his own rather inept way, seemed to be going through a similar stage.    
  
There was a certain flair to his observations that Henry recognized - and had to work hard to avoid smirking at, though he did his best - and when the scarves started he merely shook his head and considered it a compliment.  
  
But Lucas desperately needed some advice on colour coordination.  Oh, they were an eyesore.  
  
Unfortunately for his newly sartorial additions, Lucas did not have the hang of wearing scarves at crime scenes.  He lost four scarves in one week as every time he crouched down the ends of his scarves landed smack in pools and piles of blood, waste, and viscera.  The cries of disgust had a particular ring that Henry could identify without even looking.  
  
When the fourth and final monstrosity went in the trash, Lucas seemed to give up and stopped wearing them.  
  
For Christmas that year, Henry gave Lucas a book on the art of scarf tying - including diagrams, so he could finally sort out the simple task of how to tuck a scarf into his jacket - and an indigo blue silk scarf that would adequately match his dark jacket.  
  
Lucas’ grateful thanks were worth the effort.  The boy really was growing on him.  
  
  
  
*****

_**Lucas, and his What Is Henry's Deal file** _  
  


"So, like, more than half the time he can tell what killed someone within seconds.  _Seconds_.  Gets near ‘em and bam, he knows.  So here’s the thing.  No—no, hear me out here.  Just hear me out.”  
  
Lucas was holding up his hand to forestall the objections that neither Jo nor Hanson were offering, the other clutching his third pint.  He shifted to point at them each in turn.  
  
“I think he can _smell_ what killed ‘em.”  
  
“Oh boy,” Jo muttered, taking a sip of her drink.  
  
“You’re telling me you think Henry can sniff out…what, broken legs and heart attacks?”  Hanson leaned his elbows on the table, and Jo kicked him under the table, giving him a glare.  Last thing they needed to do was encourage Lucas and his nutbar theories.  
  
“Think about it, though; parts of the bodies have their own smells, and stuff going wrong can make things pretty funky.  And if you’ve ever seen him sniff you and tell what you had for lunch yesterday - and yes he’s done it to me more than once, don’t laugh - you’d see he’s got one hell of a nose.”  
  
Lucas slapped his beer on the table and threw his hands wide with an _am I right or am I right?_ attitude, staring at them both as though expecting them to melt in awe at his theory.  
  
"It’s obvious if you pay attention,” he said.  “Trust me, just watch him next time.  He always sniffs ‘em.”  
  
And try as she might, Jo couldn’t quite shake his words, and found herself sidling closer a the next crime scene to see if Henry sniffed the body.  It wasn’t until he gave her a curious look that she realized she was being stupid.  
  
Or was she?  
  
Damn Lucas, he was going to get them all wearing tinfoil hats.  She really had to stop drinking with that guy.  
  
  
  
****  
  
_**"This isn't what it looks like. Okay, it is, but it was Lucas' idea." Jo catches Henry and Lucas shenanigans.**_

  
“What in the hell are you doing?”  
  
Henry whirled around, a stretch of duct tape in one hand, eyes wide. Lucas? Well, he probably would have moved if he could, but—  
  
“Jo!  What are you doing here at this hour?” Henry blurted.  
  
“What am _I_ doing?  What are _you_ doing to Lucas?”  
  
“This isn’t what it looks like,” Henry assured her, carefully setting the duct tape roll down on the rolling table next to him and letting the long, torn off piece dangle from one hand.  
  
“It looks like you’ve duct taped your assistant M.E. to the wall.  How is that not what it looks like?”  
  
Henry closed his eyes briefly, and Lucas made a muffled noise, his eyes wide and darting meaningfully—meaning what, she didn’t know, but meaning something for sure.  
  
“Okay, it is what it looks like,” Henry conceded, “but it was Lucas’ idea.”  
  
Jo walked further into the morgue to where Henry had Lucas cocooned in duct tape to the glass wall of the fridge room, his feet six inches above the ground, and pulled at the tape covering his mouth. Surgical tape rather than duct tape, lucky for Lucas.  Even so, he made a screeching noise when Jo pulled it free.  
  
“Ow!  Yeah, thanks.  Well, it was my idea, true.  I said a single person could duct tape the body to the wall like we found him, and it didn’t have to be more than one murderer.”  
  
“And I doubted him,” Henry continued seamlessly, “though it would appear that Lucas’ experience in the dorms of New York’s film school has given him the superior knowledge on such skills as affixing an insensate body to the wall.”  
  
Jo nodded slowly, wondering why on earth she ever came down here any more.  She held up the strip of surgical tape.  
  
“And this?”  
  
“Ah,”  Henry said, glancing apologetically at Lucas, who was now giving him a dirty look.  “Yes, well, Lucas was complaining rather a lot.  It was easier to work when it was quiet.”  Henry smiled widely at her.  “However, I believe we can indeed narrow it down to a single killer!”  
  
Jo wondered how on earth she was going to be able to document this in any way that was going to hold up in court.  
  



	39. Henry & Jo:  Henry's obscure collections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Henry and his really obscure collections that he avidly rants about to Jo

“Think about it Jo - the world of medicine turned on its head, a physician suddenly able to see the bone, the specific breaks and malformations that they could only guess about before, or corrupt the body with crude cuts, risking infection and exposure and further damage, when it might not even be necessary.  Revolutionary!”

Henry babbled on as he handed her blurry picture after picture, and she delicately held each one with gloved hands - cotton white gloves, Henry had insisted - and with growing excitement begun to expound upon the virtues of x-rays.

“Where did you get all these?”  she asked, eyeing the carefully archived, very fat file of x-rays that dated back, if she was remembering Henry correctly, to 1896.

“I’ve been collecting them over the years,” Henry answered, eyeing one of what looked like ribs.  “Call it a pet interest.”

“Do you know who these are from?  I mean, where did you get them?”

“Oh, around,” he said vaguely, and then he started to collect them.  “They turn up now and again, you just have to keep your eyes open for them.”

He packed them up abruptly, suddenly quiet, and Jo wondered what the hell that was about.  It was weird the things that set Henry off.  Couldn’t wait to tell her all about them, and then wouldn’t tell her where he got them.

How did the man even work?


	40. Henry & Jo:  Henry Catches Jo Crying

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her cry, or even the second.  It was, however, the first time she’d turned without hesitation into his arms and let herself cry.

Perhaps something had changed between them after that night on her front steps, the two of them watching the first of the snow fall on the city until their bones were frozen.  He’d been granted a pass to her inner life, and she was willing to draw support from him.  He could only be grateful that he gave her some comfort, that he could offer something to soothe her tears.

He wrapped his arms around her and rubbed her back, listening to her jagged breath.  She wasn’t one to cry, but the unjust death of a child, especially one you tried to save, was enough to do it to anyone.  He felt a tear roll down his own cheek.  It was enough to do it to him, too.  This case had undoubtedly been one of the most difficult either of them had ever faced, and there were no happy endings, no justice served, no comfort to be found at all for anyone.

Jo laid her head to the side, bringing her arms up to circle his waist.

“This job sucks sometimes,” she sighed, her tears subsiding.

“Yes, that it does,” he agreed.

“Thanks for being here.”

"You’re welcome.”

It was all he said, but it nagged at him for days that what he’d really meant was thank you.  He wished he’d said it, been able to express in some small way what she did for him, too.  

There were times when if he didn’t have her to hold onto, he didn’t know how he would stand any of this.


	41. Reece:  She Knows All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Lt. Reese really does know everything that happens in her station.

From the look on Jo and Mike’s faces, they hadn’t seen it coming.  Fair enough, Joanna wasn’t usually one to gossip, especially about the personal lives of those under her.

But Dr. Morgan was one of the stranger ducks in her little flock, and bore a close eye.  There’d been times when she was half-sure she was going to find him floating dead in the river instead of just swimming naked, given how tightly wound he was.

And hell, if Henry could find himself a girlfriend who thought a crime scene was good foreplay for a night of screwing in the morgue, then he’d better hang onto her.

Which reminded her, she had to meet with that night security guard and get him to sign that confidentiality agreement.


	42. Jo:  After Sean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for a Jo-centric mini-drabble. "Alcohol is the anesthesia by which we endure the operation of life."

You never truly appreciate how tenuous your entire life is until you realize it rests on one, simple thing:  a single human heart, continuing to beat.  

Cut that thread and watch it all unravel.

There comes a time when you can’t think about it any longer, can’t lay under the disintegrating tapestry of your previously happy life while everyone else looks at you like maybe you should be getting up and shaking yourself off, like it’s time, even if you feel like you can barely move most days.

So, numb the pain and move on like they say you’re supposed to.  Like you _have_ to.  Even if what it takes to anesthetize yourself is a little more each day, each morning after more sluggish and harder than before, the excuses dwindling and the numbness more a daily way of life than a Friday night exception.

One single human heart.  And when that fails, so do you.


	43. Henry & Abigail:  Playboy Magazine, 1955

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: 
> 
> _Abigail grabbing dirty wash out of Abe's room only to find a play boy that is not in good condition and goes and rants to Henry about it_
> 
> ...only less ranting, and more hilarity.

“Henry? Look what I found in Abraham’s room.”

A glossy magazine landed in Henry’s lap, and he cast aside the unfolded shirt in his hands onto the pile of folded laundry to pick it up and look at it. 

Abigail was standing over him, one hand on her waist and the other propping the dirty laundry basket against her hip. She raised an eyebrow at him. He leaned back on the couch and looked back at the glossy cover. A young brunette woman, posed provocatively in a swimsuit, gazed over her shoulder at the camera, with _Playboy_ emblazoned in large letters above the portrait.

“I’ve heard of these,” he said, flipping it open.

“I bet you have,” Abigail responded.

He chuckled at her dry tone.

“Quite popular at the moment. You know how the doctors are at the hospital. No better than being in the army, frankly.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

Henry opened the magazine wide and looked at the two page spread of the same brunette, though the swimsuit was long gone. His eyebrows crawled upwards, and he tilted the magazine.

“Well, that’s—I see.”

“Oh go on then, shove over,” Abigail said brightly, dropping the basket and plopping on the couch next to him. “I haven’t looked at it yet, I’m dying of curiosity.”

Henry put his arm around Abigail and he put the magazine on their laps, both of them bending their heads together to look at the next page, which continued on with the nude exploits of the brunette woman. 

“I would have sold my soul for something like this when I was Abe’s age,” Henry said, flipping to another page. “Had to make due with imagination and wishful thinking, until I was old enough to, er, visit the source, so to speak.” He tilted his head. “I was more than a bit useless at first.”

“Now _that’s_ hard to picture,” Abigail said, kissing him on the cheek. “Well, lucky Abraham. A doctor and nurse for parents, and a wealth of pornographic material at his fingertips. His knowledge of anatomy will be flawless, no doubt.”

They ended up paging through the whole thing, having a good chuckle over various stories, flights of fancy, and so-called ‘topical mens affairs.’

“Do you think we should speak to him about it?” she asked Henry when they finally reached the end, their mirth done.

“No, let the lad have his secrets.” Henry tossed the magazine onto the laundry basket. “No harm, no foul.”

“I suppose so,” she said with a sigh. “Though it’s hard to believe he’s old enough already to be interested.”

“Abraham has been falling in love with girls since he was four years old! I have no doubt he’s quite interested, and has been for some time.” He studied Abigail as she contemplated the magazine. “It doesn’t bother you, does it? I will speak to him if you think it’s inappropriate.”

“No—no, quite honestly I can appreciate the appeal. I imagine my own early knowledge would have been well supplemented if I’d had such a thing to study that featured men.”

Henry pulled her close, murmuring in her ear, “If you’d like something to study, I’m sure I can oblige you.”

“Henry Morgan,” she scolded, thick amusement colouring her words, “are you turned on by your son’s dirty magazines?”

Henry kissed her neck with a mock growl and she giggled, twitching away with a squeal as it turned into a ticklish wrestling match. Folded laundry was knocked awry, and Henry pinned her to the couch and kissed her until she was screaming with laughter, slapping at his shoulders in mock protest. 

“Alright, alright!” she agreed, and he propped himself up to look down at her. Her lipstick and hair were mussed, but she glowed brightly, cheeks a pretty pink. “You win, Mr. Centerfold. Let’s see your stuff.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, grinning over his victory. He grabbed her hand and pulled her from the couch, dragging her down the hall.


	44. Jo & Lucas:  Mischief Managed (gift for mystoryisalongone)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift for mystoryisalongone, drawn from the prompt from kythe42:
> 
> _Jo and Lucas: Mischief Managed._

“I can’t. He’ll kill me. Shoot me dead. He’ll think it was _all_ me. Or he’ll fire me! That’s worse than kill me!”

“Lucas, calm down,” Jo said soothingly, patting Lucas on the arm as he freaked out. “He won’t think it was you.” 

“He’ll know I let you in! He always knows!”

“It’s fine.” Jo turned her back on Lucas. “Come on, Hanson, grab the other end.”

Hanson gripped his side of Henry’s desk and on the count of three, they heaved it up and hauled it into the corridor. It was heavy as sin, probably pure oak or mahogany or something like that, and they’d wrapped it carefully to avoid any scratches or dings as they pulled and manhandled it out of the morgue. 

It took nearly all night, but they emptied Henry’s office, stripping it bare. They restocked it with utilitarian clean-line metal-and-plastic furniture, posters of Jackson Pollock and other modern artists, cheap block-coloured abstract rugs, until the office looked like either Mad Men gone wrong, or the lobby of a failing wannabe trendy start-up company.

Lucas hovered over the proceedings all night, the damning access key card flipping between his fingers with each pass Jo and Hanson made. He didn’t help—he’d done enough, and Henry would know.

“He’s going to kill me,” Lucas moaned.

 

***

 

Lucas hid in the fridge room all the next morning, cowering when he finally saw Henry come in. Peering over the edge of a file, he witnessed the exact moment when Henry saw his new office decor through the glass of his office. 

Henry swivelled and spotted Lucas with frighteningly fast accuracy, and his look was thunderous. 

“Lucas! Where is my furniture!”

Lucas waved his hands as though it could ward off Henry’s ire, standing in the fridge room doorway. 

“It was Detective Martinez! And Detective Hanson! They made me!”

Henry rolled his eyes to the ceiling, as though trying to gather his strength. Then his eyes narrowed, and his mouth twisted into a grim smile. Lucas could practically see the ideas germinating in Henry’s mind, and when Henry looked back at him, Lucas gulped and shook his head desperately.

“No,” he said. “I can’t. She’ll kill me.”

 

***

 

Two weeks later, Henry’s office was long since returned to normal, but Hanson and Jo came to work one morning to find all of her office possessions attached to the ceiling in perfect mirrored order. Including their desks. Jo and Hanson stood staring at their upside-down workspaces, trying to figure out how he’d done it.

“Well, at least he didn’t leave us body parts or something.”

“Don’t be so sure yet,” she said. “We haven’t opened any of the drawers.”

Hanson sighed.

“Well, I’ll go see if I can get a ladder.”


	45. Henry & Abe:  Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That one time when Henry needed clothes, but not because he died.

“You know, when you called and said you needed dry clothes, this is not what I expected.”

Henry turned around to see Abe standing behind him, duffel bag in hand. He smiled, tired out, but glad to see Abe all the same.

“No, for once I’ve merely ruined a perfectly good suit rather than lost it.” His shoes squelched as he took a step towards Abe, and he grimaced at he feel of tepid river water flushing between his toes. “And shoes,” he added.

Abe handed him the bag.

“Gotcha covered.”

Behind Henry, the river bank was lit up with emergency vehicle lints. Jo and Hanson were moving between witnesses. Jo went to the ambulance and a woman on a stretcher while Hanson headed to a squad car. 

“What happened?” Abe asked.

“Our murderer returned to the scene of her crime in a belated effort to make this a murder-suicide. She drove into the water right past the emergency vehicles—very nearly taking out Hanson in the process.” He plucked the bag from Abe’s hands, unzipping it to find a full change of clothes inside.

“And you dove in,” Abe finished for him, shaking his head. “God, Henry. You have the self-preservation instincts of a lemming.”

“It’s not as though I could be permanently harmed,” Henry grumbled quietly, pulling out the towel that was rolled up and tucked next to his clothes, unfurling it and drying his hair with a firm scrub.

“No, just exposed in front of all your coworkers. No big deal at all.”

Henry let the bag drop to the ground as he stripped off his wet jacket, eyeing his son, mouth set in disapproval.

“I’m not interested in a lecture, Abraham, I’m perfectly aware of my own condition—which I have been dealing with long before you were born. Thank you for the clothes. You needn’t stay if you’re tired.”

“You don’t even care anymore, do you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Henry huffed, refusing to look at Abe.

“If you want them to know, tell them. Because you’re going to get yourself killed in front of them one day if you keep this up. You’re not an action hero, Henry. So do it before it happens by accident and you freak everyone out. Or worse, you do, and then you take off.”

“Goodnight, Abe.”

Abe frowned at him with heavy disapproval, but Henry walked away from him quickly without giving him a further chance to respond. He headed back towards the flashing lights, intent on checking on their suspect, and ruthlessly pushed aside Abe’s words. It was a conversation—and self-reflection, because there was a grain of truth in it, no matter how much he resented the accusation—best left for another time.


	46. The Morgan Family:  Bedtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Squeezing in alone time around a baby's schedule is the eternal parental battle.

**6:53pm:**

Abigail kissed Henry behind the ear, her breath ruffling the hair and making him shiver unexpectedly.  He looked up from the dishes to find her next to him, jogging Abraham on her hip.  Abe was tugging at her collar, finally quiet and content now that he was being held.

“I’m going to put him to bed,” Abigail said, a tired smile on her face.  “Maybe after...?”

She lifted her eyebrows meaningfully, and Henry smiled.  He shifted his attention to Abe, who, at the age of 16 months, had given up on the concept of sleep.  Abigail’s eyes were as shadowed with fatigue the same as his, but her optimism was enough to raise his interest.  

“Best of luck,” he said, leaning in to kiss her briefly, and then plant a smack on Abraham’s cheek.  “Goodnight, little one.”

“Come on, love, bedtime,” Abigail cooed.

Abe stuck out his bottom lip, then his face went red and he arched his back, flailing in Abigail’s grip.

“No!” he shrieked.  “No, no!”

Henry sighed deeply as Abigail walked from the kitchen towards the bedroom,  Abe’s screaming fading like the doppler effect of a siren.

 

**7:40pm:**

Dear god that boy could scream.  

Henry finished sweeping the kitchen and decided to settle into the couch with a book, listening to the alternating sounds of Abe’s tirade and Abigail’s quiet murmurs.  

 

**8:17pm**

Silence.  Optimistic silence.  It had been quiet for three minutes now.  Henry tried to listen to see if Abigail was still humming, but nothing.  

A car drove by.

“No! No bed,” came the prolonged wail, and Henry returned to his book.

 

**9:05pm**

Henry snuck down the hall and peered into the bedroom.  It was dark and quiet, and had been for ten minutes.

He snuck in to the room, quiet steps, and Abigail’s head tilted towards him.  She was curled behind Abe, the boy snuggled into the crook of her body, arms flung wide.

“He finally asleep?”  Henry whispered.

A chubby limb flailed, and then a moan, and a wordless wail. Abigail’s eyes went up to Henry, murderous in the low gleam of streetlight from the window.

“Your turn,” she hissed.

 

**10:15pm**

Perhaps it was teething, Henry speculated.  Or gas?  Stomach cramps?  Abe dozed, then woke, then dozed, then woke.  Henry cuddled him, hummed, rubbed his back, but each time he tried to sneak away, Abe clutched at him and demanded he stay.

 

**10:46pm**

Henry found Abigail on the couch, and he collapsed onto it next to her.  She dropped the magazine and curled up against him, head dropping on his shoulder immediately.  He put an arm around her.

“He’ll sleep someday, right?”  Abigail muttered.

“One would hope.” He squeezed her, and half-heartedly he kissed her forehead.  “Do you still want to--”

“The mind is willing, the body is bloody tired.  Sorry, darling.”

“Me too.  Perhaps another time.”

They went to ready themselves for bed, but as they were about to crawl into bed, a wail from Abe’s bedroom.  Abigail looked at Henry and closed her eyes.

“Perhaps in eighteen years when he moves out,” she sighed.  
  



	47. Henry & Abe:  The Death of the Immortal Jellyfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Henry's feeding his jellyfish, and then he gets stung by one of them. (Bonus if it's Squishy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This one’s for the jellyfish art](http://projectssss.tumblr.com/post/115419292113/i-got-bored-so-i-drew-henrys-jellyfish-names).

Henry sucked on his throbbing finger, staring morosely into the tank at the two remaining jellyfish, then shifted to look at the despondent pile of translucent muck he’d dug out of the water aeration pump.  He’d washed his hands twice, and still the sting lingered.

He startled from his contemplation when Abe’s footsteps on the stairs sounded, and he couldn’t help the guilty rush.  Abe frowned at him from the staircase.

“What’s with you?”

“Well,” Henry mumbled around his finger, then drew it out.  He grimaced.  Damn, that still really hurt—those little stingers packed a punch.  Abe came over, eventually seeing the grim sight spread on his desk. 

“What the hell happened?”

“I may have…  It seems the new aeration system was a little overzealous.  To strong on the draw.”

Abe crossed his arms, lifting his chin and narrowing his eyes at Henry.

“Which one?”

Henry cleared his throat, that same uncomfortable sense of guilt rolling around in his stomach.

“Squishy.” 

Abe covered his mouth, his brows drawing together, and Henry spread his arms wide in a gesture of helpless apology.  “I’m sorry, it was an accident, I really thought I’d correctly calibrated the machine, but it seems the salinity does in fact play a part in it.  I know you were fond of it.  Carter and Result managed to escape the current, which essentially became a riptide, and…”  Henry stopped mid-excuse, cocking his head to the side.  “Are you—are you _laughing_ , Abraham?”

Abe’s shoulders were shaking, and when he squeezed his eyes shut there were tears at the corners.  Finally the guffaws burst out until he was leaning forward to literally slap his knees in mirth.  Henry gaped at him, somewhat affronted.

“You,” Abe gasped, “you killed the immortal jellyfish.  Gawd, Henry, I can’t _believe_ it.  I’m going to give myself a hernia laughing.  You killed the _immortal jellyfish_.”

Henry huffed and drew himself up straight, turning to wrap up the dead jelly in the newsprint he’d lain it upon.  His stung finger smarted as it brushed the paper. 

“It was purely unintentional.”

Abe nodded, still snorting away, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Oh yes, I know.  Well, may the little guy rest in peace.”  He patted Henry on the back.  “Sixty years is a good run for a jellyfish, don’t worry about it.  My childhood self forgives you for killing the one I named.  Not to be callous, but my attachment to it has waned a little over the years.”

Henry smiled, reluctantly laughing at the ridiculous irony of it all. 

“Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, Squishy,” Henry intoned, dumping the wad of paper in the trash.  He sighed, chagrined.  “You lucky bastard.”  
  



	48. Henry & James:  Silence [mature]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this drabble is explicit. Henry/James Carter (1x03).

One of the strangest things about their situation was how eerily silent James was whenever physical intimacy passed between them.  He was his usual lighthearted self, always on the cusp of laughter and teasing goodwill—right up until he touched Henry with a significance that spoke to his interest.  
  
He hadn’t noticed it that first night, when Henry had invited him into his home, when Henry had offered him a kiss and James had eagerly taken it, thanking him as though it were a gift Henry gave him, rather than the less benevolent truth—that Henry was selfishly grabbing at an opportunity life had offered him.  After that night, James’ hesitancy was gone.  He wasn’t shy about his desires, once Henry made it clear his advances were welcome.  Not shy, but terribly, strangely silent.  
  
They were barely through the door of James’ home, giddy after a night of merriment on the town, before James wrapped his arms around Henry, pressing himself tight to Henry’s back.  James kicked the door shut behind them as ran his hands down over Henry’s chest, licking and biting at the back of Henry’s neck as he pulled his shirt free, silent but for his shallow breath, and Henry tilted his head back towards it, eager to listen.  Cool hands snuck under his clothes to stroke his belly, and the abrupt, forceful eagerness made Henry’s knees weak.  He’d always loved a forward partner, someone willing to take what they wanted as much as accept what he offered.    
  
He tried to turn in James’ arms to kiss him, but James held him firm.  One arms was a band across his chest while James worked him free of his trousers to grasp tight hold of him without preamble, and in short order had Henry braced on the wall with both hands, struggling to stay upright and even remotely discreet within the paper-thin walls of the tenement apartment. All he had was James’ breath, hot and uneven in his ear, as proof that it was his friend, his dear friend, rather than some anonymous stranger.  
  
Only when Henry, cheek pressed to the wall and teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached, came in James’ hand,  was he released.  Henry was dazed, ambushed and beaten, somewhere between delighted and confused.  James’ cheeks were flushed, his eyes eager and hungry when Henry faced him, and Henry took his cue from his actions and turned the tables.  But he wouldn’t let James turn away when he tried; Henry wanted to see him, watch the contortions and pull of his features as Henry touched him.  While James consented to that, he kept his eyes closed, head tilted back against the wall and was silent—even his breathing quiet and still, his release carefully managed but for a small grunt.  
  
So unlike the friend he knew.  So quiet.  
  
He kissed James afterwards, warm and tender, and finally James opened his eyes.  Henry pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped their hands, mess carefully and adeptly contained despite the unexpected rush of it all.  James fixed his trousers, looking a little sheepish and shy.  When their clothes were properly returned to order, he met Henry’s eye with the familiar twinkle.  
  
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked.  
  
His words were so striking after the silence that Henry took a moment to answer.  He cocked his head to the side, mystified by the switch, trying to understand.  
  
“Yes, I’d like that.”  
  
James slipped away from him to go find a bottle and glasses, starting to natter about the apartment, his luck at finding something decent right after his move to New York two years ago, and so Henry said nothing about their actions even though he had miles of words queuing in his mind, and he wished for the quiet affection of holding James in his arms.  
  
Perhaps this was not James’ style.  Even so, it didn’t sit right with Henry.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loosely continued in [this drabble](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3099611/chapters/14252317).


	49. Henry & Jo:  At the Robot Wars Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry and Jo investigate a murder at the Robot Wars, where the fierce competition turned deadly.

“Note the powder,” Henry said, poking a gloved hand around the small machine, indicating the white grains worked into the two caterpillar-style treads forming the wheels.  “I believe this is our poison.”

Jo leaned in to squint at it, frowning.  She looked back to the collapsed body of their victim, the owner of the little robot.  The man, thin and gaunt looking even before he was a corpse, judging by his competition photo in the Robot Wars program magazine she had in her hands.  He was, both in the picture and now, wearing a bright yellow t-shirt with a stylized cartoonish representation of his robot emblazoned across the chest, with the words _In Robot Wars, Trashbot Trashes You_ written underneath.

“So how did it get there?”  Jo asked.  “I mean, why is there poison all over his robot?”

“Ah, now here’s the brilliant part,” Henry said, stabbing a finger in the air with a broad grin, then leaping up to hurry to the center of the battle ring.  “Look over here—not one set of tracks, but two.  See?”  He spread out his hands, encompassing the faint tracks.  “While this little fellow left his bulldozer-style tread mark, these much finer pinpoint steps here indicate a different method of conveyance.  Something, perhaps like _this_?”

He leaned over and tapped the magazine in her hands, and she followed his indication to the other page, where a sharp-eyed young woman was cradling a robotic spiderish monstrosity with red lights atop it that formed an hourglass shape.

“I suspect that this was the method of conveyance.  Deliver the poison to the ring, Trashbot rolls through it and picks it up.  Mr. Delvino retrieves his robot, is exposed to the poison, which then reacts with his sweat, and he is dead within minutes.”  

“That’s...but why?  Who kills someone at a robot fighting competition—let alone pre-event?”

“Perhaps we had best ask...”  Henry leaned forward, glancing at the page, “The WidowMaker.”


	50. Henry & Jo: 1x20 - Abe doesn't interrupt The Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the prompt: _I wish you would write a fic where: Abe didn't barge in._ (episode 1x20 alt ending)

“Why?”  
  
That was the question, wasn’t it?  Jo was here, had spent the whole cab ride to Henry’s place with the full knowledge she was doing something incredibly stupid, but that it was the thing she had to do.  When you’re headed for a romantic trip to Paris with your boyfriend and all you can hear in your head are the words spoken by another man, it’s time to resolve things.    
  
“I don’t know,” she admitted.  She’d hoped he would know, and she wouldn’t have to explain it.  “Maybe I thought that there were reasons I shouldn’t.”  Henry didn’t say anything, and the silence was painful.  She couldn’t let it sit, and it lured the rest of the truth out of her.  “Maybe I was hoping you didn’t want me to go.”  
  
Henry took his hands from his pockets, letting them fall to his sides.  He was braver than her; he didn’t look away, despite the fact he looked—what, stunned?  Terrified?  She couldn’t read him, was far too scared herself of what she was doing to figure it out, what he would say.  Was this good, bad, this silence?  
  
Because she’d never done this before.  She’d never managed to talk to Henry without their job getting in the way, without interruption, without something dragging them back to the real world and away from all this dangerous personal ground that they’d glossed over in a year of partnership.  But Henry wasn’t sticking to the tidy confines of work anymore.  She thought about him at the most inopportune times—including the whole way to the airport, comparing his words and attitude to Isaac, when there was no way she should be comparing him to the man she was dating.  Or, more honestly, measuring the man she was dating against Henry.  
  
“Jo,” he said, quietly, carefully.  “I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t have—that I don’t have feelings for you.  But…”  
  
_But_.  The only word more painful than _why_.  Jo closed her eyes, bracing herself.  She waved a hand as if she could clear the air.  
  
“It’s okay, you don’t have to.  I know, I get it.”  
  
“Please, Jo.  It’s not…”  
  
She opened her eyes again, and Henry had taken a step closer, was so close.  He took her raised hand in his, his thumb across the backs of her fingers.  His hold was gentle, and he still hadn’t looked away from her, not once.  He took a deep breath.  
  
“There aren’t many people in this world who mean what you mean to me.  There haven’t been many at all.  But I’d be selfish to think I could be…”  He took a deep breath, a shaky and unsteady one, and continued.  “That I could be what you deserve.  I won’t do that to you.  I can’t.”  
  
His eyes were bright with unshed tears, and she had to work hard to not let herself fall into the same emotional trap.  If it wasn’t her, and if it wasn’t a lack of wanting to…  
  
“Why?” she asked.  
  
And finally, his gaze dropped, shifted away from her.  Like that, she knew he was gone.  When it came down to it, when she finally had the time and space to really find out what was going on, Henry wouldn’t let her.  It was crushing.  There was no other word for it.  She’d taken the leap, poured her heart out, and Henry wasn’t there.  Maybe he never would be.  
  
Henry looked back at her, and shook his head.    
  
“I’m sorry, Jo.  I’m sorry.”  
  
She shrugged, pulled her hand away, looked to the floor.  Anywhere but him.  She sniffed, trying to stuff away the embarrassment, the hurt, the grief, the stupid _feelings_ that wouldn’t go away, because it wasn’t going to do anything.    
  
“It’s okay, like I said, I get it.  It’s fine.”  He started to say something, but she interrupted him.  “It’s fine, Henry.  I should go.  I’ll see you on Monday, okay?  Bye.”  
  
She dodged around him quickly, avoiding his gaze, and Henry stood there, didn’t move as she picked up her suitcase and hurried out the door.    
  
She would have felt more embarrassed if she wasn’t so busy being heartbroken.  She tried not to let the cab driver see as she turned her face to the window, quietly dabbing at the tears she couldn’t stop.  Not the greatest night, as far as her love life went.  The one guy who’d cared about her she’d ditched for a possibility, a hope.  And that hope was completely gone now.  
  
And, possibly, a friend with it.    
  
She was such an _idiot_.  She leaned her forehead against the cab window and tried to hold it in until she got home.


	51. Henry & Lucas:  "I don't care. If it will save you, I'll do it."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt fill for: _Henry and Lucas: "I don't care. If it will save you, I'll do it."_
> 
> Originally posted on [my tumblr](http://truthisademurelady.tumblr.com/post/120113517580/lucas-henry-i-dont-care-if-it-will-save-you).

_Who sews a bomb into a corpse?  Seriously, who?_

Lucas stared down at Henry’s hands inside the chest cavity.  His palms had depressed the trigger, and as soon as it let up the steady pressure, it would go off.  The awkward position was clearly difficult to hold, and Lucas could see that already Henry’s muscles were giving in.  And great as it was that there was a bomb squad in the NYPD, for emergency responders they sure weren’t a fast.

If Lucas could get in there, shove aside the liver with the pliers, he could disengage the switch.  He could see it, it wasn’t hard.  Homemade, flimsy.

“Lucas, no.  I told you to leave.  I can wait for the bomb squad.”

Henry, across the slab from him, had his arms locked and extended like he was giving some macabre version of CPR to the autopsied corpse.  His brow was dotted with sweat, but his voice was steady.

“But I think I can—“

“Lucas.”  Henry cut him off gently.  “Everyone else has left.  Go as well.  It will be fine.”

“I can disconnect the switch.  I can see it.  It’s right there.”

Lucas pointed with the pliers, an inch from his target, and Henry hissed in a breath in alarm.  Lucas drew back.

“Please, go,”  Henry repeated, his tone growing sharp with desperation.  “I’ll be fine.”

“You won’t be fine!”

“I really will be, I promise you,” Henry said, strangely reassuring even though his arms were shaking with fatigue.  “I won’t have you put yourself at risk over this.”

“I don’t care!  If it’ll save you, I’ll do it.”

It felt like someone else was saying the words.  Lucas was no action hero, and he knew that well enough.  But he felt like he couldn’t leave Henry, like he was as much a part of holding Henry’s hands steady as Henry was.  And it was so easy, just a nudge of the switch and the flimsy soldered connections would break.  No connection, no explosion.

_Fuck it, I’m going in._

“Here goes nothing.  Hold still.”  Lucas nosed the pliers past the edge of the liver towards the switch.

“No!  Lucas no, don’t!  Stop, no—“

But before Henry could even finish his frantic protest, it was done.  They both stared at it in shock, and very slowly, Henry lifted his hands.

Nothing.  No explosion.  Nada.

And that’s when Lucas’ knees gave out and he sat heavy on the floor.

“Lucas!”

Henry ran around the table, stripping his gloves off and tossing them aside without care.  He knelt in front of Lucas, whose hands had started to shake.  He managed to get his gory gloves off and dropped them to the floor.

“Are you alright?”  Henry asked, putting his hands to Lucas’ shoulders.

“I think I peed myself a little bit,”  Lucas blurted.  “Holy crap, Henry.  Okay, no more bombs in corpses.”

“No more bombs in corpses,”  Henry agreed, a smile twitching at his mouth.

He released Lucas’ shoulders and offered him a hand up.  As he stood on wobbling knees, the doors to the morgue burst open and two men in heavy suits waddled in, laden with equipment.

“Oh, _now_ you guys show up,”  Lucas said, waving his hands wildly.  “Good job, guys.  Better late than never.”

Henry started laughing, deep guffaws, and Lucas, giddy and lightheaded, joined him.  Henry slapped him on the back and urged him towards the exit while the disgruntled bomb squad ignored them and turned their attention towards isolating and removing the explosives from the corpse.

“Come along, let’s go celebrate being alive, shall we?”  Henry said to Lucas with a grin.  “I think we’ve earned it.”

Lucas couldn’t agree more. 


	52. Henry & Jo:  "I need a hug or an orgasm."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the anonymous prompt: _"I need a hug or an orgasm," Jo mumbled into her glass of scotch, and Henry immediately glanced up from his._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published [on my tumblr](http://truthisademurelady.tumblr.com/post/121081479245/i-need-a-hug-or-an-orgasm-jo-mumbled-into-her).

"I need a hug or an orgasm," Jo mumbled into her glass of scotch, and Henry immediately glanced up from his.  
  
Noticing Henry’s reaction, she raised an eyebrow, thunked her elbows on the bar top and stared him down.  She wasn’t in the mood for listening to whatever lecture he had brewing, or any of his superior holier-than-thou attitude tonight.  
  
“What?” she said.  
  
“Nothing,” he said quickly, eyes widening, then he tipped his head to the side.  “Well, no, not nothing.  Just thinking that yes, both of those are healthy ways to deal with stress.  As far as orgasms go, the average person exercises that tension-relief method frequently.”  
  
Despite herself, Jo felt her cheeks go hot.  She should have known there was no embarrassing Henry, and that he’d take this way farther than she was able to go.  
  
“Oh god, Henry, just stop.”  
  
“No no, I’m not done,”  he said.  
  
“Of course you’re not,” she muttered, taking another sip of scotch.  
  
Henry set his glass down deliberately.  He slid from his bar stool and stood next to her, and she straightened from her slumped position and spun towards him, curious.  He rolled his shoulders as though preparing for something and then moved close enough to wrap his arms around her and pull her into a hug.  
  
Her arms were dangling, trapped between them, her face mashed against the lapel of his suit, and he tucked his chin over her head as he squeezed her tight.  It was weird.  But also...  
  
Well, it was kind of nice.  She sighed and relaxed against him.  He was so strange, but she was getting used to it.  
  
After a few more seconds, Henry released her and sat back on his stool, and she looked at him in askance.  
  
“One can give oneself an orgasm,”  Henry said, finger in the air as he pontificated, “but a hug requires two people.”  
  
Jo stared at him for a moment, then snorted, then burst out laughing.  Henry grinned back.  She raised her glass to clink with his, both of them toasting to a terrible week now behind them.


	53. Henry & Jo:  History Repeating tag [mature]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A super-fluffy morning-after tag to [History Repeating.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3170831)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the anon prompt: _All I want is a Jenry kiss. That is all. I would love you forever. Get it? Forever..._
> 
> Originally published [on my tumblr.](http://truthisademurelady.tumblr.com/post/115500189970/all-i-want-is-a-jenry-kiss-that-is-all-i-would)

Henry awoke in muddy confusion, rising slowly from the depths of a heavy and dreamless sleep. Two facts hit him immediately.

One, he wasn’t in his own bed. Two, he wasn’t alone.

He opened his eyes to a mass of dark hair filling his vision, and the pleasant flush of contentment rolled over his confusion. He was wrapped around Jo, both of them having fallen asleep together in pure exhaustion after an emotional day. He shuffled closer, nuzzling into her hair with sleepy joy.

Jo took a deep breath and stirred, her body shifting against his. He’d stripped to his undershirt and boxers, she in comfortable well-worn pyjamas, and they were warm and snug together, one of his arms stretched out beneath her pillow and the other over her ribs, hand on her stomach, her hand over his. He’d forgotten the comfort in this. He’d been with enough women, but never allowed himself have the luxury of a night spent holding someone, the casual affection being more intimate than sex.

With a stretch and soft grunt, Jo twisted in his arms, her eyes foggy.

“Hey,” she murmured, voice thick and deep. “Sleep well?”

“Yes. Better than I have in ages.”

He kissed her softly and she huffed a small laugh, her lips curving against his. She tilted her head away from him, mouth against his cheek.

“I probably have terrible breath.”

“I couldn’t care less,” he laughed, kissing her cheek, and then finding her mouth again.

She let him kiss her this time, her arm draping over his waist and finding the skin of his back between his shirt and boxers, then sliding up his spine with the soft scrape of fingernails, light enough to tickle and raise goosebumps on his flesh.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed Jo was attractive—a person would have to be blind to miss her beauty—but it had never been the primary means by which he’d viewed her. However, the long, lean stretch of her body against his, the warmth of her fingers travelling along his skin, and her mouth on his all very quickly brought the fact to the forefront of his attention. It all felt far too good, and he was quickly losing track of anything but her. She slid her leg along the outside of his, her foot stroking along the back of his thigh and he rolled into her, fitting against the crook of her hip.

“Hm,” she sighed, a smile in her voice as she felt his body against hers. “That’s a nice reaction.”

“I doubt I could manage to be in bed with you without such a reaction,” he murmured, moving to kiss her neck. “You’re rather difficult to resist.”

She pushed his shoulder and rolled him onto his back, moving with him until she was half on him, hand on his chest propping her up so she could look down at him. Her lips were red and plump from the kisses, her eyes dark, hair a wild mess.

“Any reason we should stop?”

“None that I can think of,” he said, unable to stop his smile.

“Well, good,” she murmured, and kissed him again.

He pulled her atop him and buried his hands in her hair, letting himself get swept away in the feel of her. She was beautiful, passionate, and warm—so many things he’d never let himself see or acknowledge. It was so easy to love her.


	54. Henry & Lucas:  "What do you mean 'You're okay?'"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry and Lucas tackle a very unpleasant crime scene. 
> 
> Originally published on [my tumblr](http://truthisademurelady.tumblr.com/post/120221842430/what-do-you-mean-youre-okay-lucas-and-henry%0A).

It was grim work, the scene of the industrial accident.  No, not an accident—murder, given the intentions of the man who’d died in his own handiwork.  Alongside the CSU team,  Henry and Lucas scoured the wreckage, tagging and identifying remains.  Arms, legs, torsos, and sometimes pieces that couldn’t properly be identified as anything in particular, merely the very generic _remains_.  
  
The heat of the July day grew brutally hot, bringing the stench of death to new heights.  Eventually Lucas sought shelter from the sun, propping himself against the back wheel of a police cruiser and hiding in the shade.  He was too tired to think of anything.  Only two hours and he was so exhausted he felt like he could barely stay upright.  
  
A shadow elongated the shade of the car, and Lucas looked up to see Henry, holding two water bottles.  Henry sat down at Lucas’ side, legs extended and crossed at the ankles.  He leaned back against the car with Lucas and handed him one bottle without a word, then opened his own bottle and took a sip.  
  
Henry was silent and squinting into the sun, still surveying the scene even as he rested.  Since they’d arrived, Henry hadn’t rested for a moment, constantly moving among the rubble and supervising the work of the team of a dozen people.  
  
Lucas cracked the bottle and downed half of it in one go.  He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was.  Once it was in him, however, his stomach cramped and he felt like he was going to throw up.  The smell, the heat, the horror—death had never scared him or driven him away, but this was almost unbearable.  He’d never seen anything like this.   Lucas leaned forward and put his head down, focusing on not being sick.    
  
Henry put a hand to his back.  
  
“Sorry,”  Lucas said, gulping and swallowing.  “Sorry.”  
  
“You’re okay,”  Henry said quietly.  “Deep, slow breaths.”  
  
“What do you mean, ‘you’re okay,’”  Lucas snorted wryly.  “I’m freaking out.  I’m supposed to be an M.E. and I’m freaking out at dead bodies.”  
  
“You are an M.E.,”  Henry agreed.  His tone was soft, his cadence almost hypnotic as he spoke, and his hand was solid between Lucas’ shoulder blades.  “And you are human.  You are having an understandable reaction to what amounts to a massacre.  This is more violent death than most people see in a lifetime.  Even for our profession, this is especially difficult.”  
  
Eventually the nausea subsided and Henry withdrew his hand, letting Lucas lean back against the tire again.  He had another cautious sip of water, then looked to Henry.  
  
“What about you?”  
  
“What about me?”  Henry raised an eyebrow.    
  
“You know, all this.  It’s just—nothing seems to phase you.  I don’t know how you do it.”  
  
Henry’s smile was a little sad, a little self-deprecating.  He shook his head.  
  
“I have seen a lot of death over the years, and while I’m not indifferent to it, there is a certain peace to knowing we can answer the last question of why they died, and how—even in circumstances such as this.  Death can be many things, from a tragedy to a mercy.  The method may be different, but the end result is the same—the person is gone.  We can honour their memory by respecting their bodies, but they have departed.”  
  
Lucas nodded, inspecting his shoes.  Coolly practical, that was Henry.  Much as Lucas could strive for it, he’d never manage to be up to Henry’s impossible example.  Well, it wasn’t like he didn’t already know that.      
  
“But,”  Henry continued slowly, “facing the people left behind who grieve for their loved ones, those who survive them, helping them understand…”  Lucas glanced at him as Henry paused. Henry lowered his head, brows drawn together in thought.  “That is when I find it most difficult.”  He looked up at Lucas, smiling faintly again.  “This job presents its challenges to us all, in one form or another.  You’re not alone in that.  There is no shame in finding your resources taxed under these circumstances.”  
  
Lucas and Henry were silent for a while, listening to the shouts of the site team as they continued their search and flag mission.  
  
“Thanks, Henry.”  
  
Henry nodded, and then moved to stand.  Lucas joined him, and Henry waved him down.  
  
“Rest, take your time.”  
  
“No, I’m ready,” Lucas said.  “Just needed a minute.”  
  
“Very well.”  
  
They walked back to the rubble and began again.  It was still difficult work, but it helped Lucas to know that he wasn’t alone in it.  


	55. Henry & Jo:  Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the anon prompt: the sounds they makes when jo and henry kiss.

One of Henry’s favourite things about kissing Jo was the sound of her sigh.  A brief kiss and she’d smile, but if he held her, kissed her just so, she’d make a beautiful noise, a soft vocalization that hummed through his bones and made him burn.  He’d never grow tired of hearing it, he was sure.

And with that beautiful sound came the smallest touch of her tongue against his lips, and all too quickly he wanted much more than a kiss, was eager to feel more than just her mouth against his, and would respond with a needy noise.  Desperate—he always sounded desperate when he was with her, he didn’t know why.  She made him impatient, as though he was always rushing against the clock, as though he didn’t have a moment to waste.

“You’re like a teenager,” she often joked, and Henry’s laugh would rumble as he kissed her neck until she sighed again, deeper, longer.

He catalogued every breath, every sound she made, carefully marking each memory and tucking it away for life.  Her taste and feel he burned into his mind with careful determination.  When he was with her he was always present, always paying attention, knowing that someday these memories would be all he had.  As much as he lived for this now, he could never set aside the knowledge that it was temporary.

But those sighs that echoed in his thoughts, the tingle of her lips on his even when she was mere steps away, reading a book, or floors above him as he worked in the morgue and she at her desk—those would be the fire that sustained him someday, and he wouldn’t deny himself now, even if it hurt later.

In the meantime, he kissed her every chance he got.  That he had not begun the moment he first laid eyes on her, that there was a whole year of lost kisses and sighs—he’d always regret those lost opportunities.

A sound as beautiful as any birdsong, and one that was his privilege to hear, for as long as she would allow it.  
  



	56. Henry & Lucas:  "Hey... I need to tell you something."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the anonymous prompt: _Lucas walked up to Henry, scuffing his shoes on the ground. "Hey...I need to tell you something." He spoke, slightly nervous._.
> 
> Originally published [here](http://truthisademurelady.tumblr.com/post/121077738610/lucas-walked-up-to-henry-scuffing-his-shoes-on).

Lucas walked up to Henry, scuffing his shoes on the ground.   
  
"Hey...I need to tell you something,” he said, slightly nervous.  
  
Henry looked up from the electron microscope to find Lucas hovering on the opposite side of the lab bench.  Most of the time, Lucas conducted himself in a manner that was far too casual and relaxed for Henry’s tastes, though he’d learned to appreciate Lucas’ own particular style.  He was effective, even if those results came with a great deal of flair.  
  
However, when Lucas was concerned he’d done something wrong, it was like a flipped switch.  Nervous, stuttering, hands fluttering and eyes darting like repercussions might come at him from any angle.    
  
Today, Lucas had added blushing tomato-red to his list of tics, which took Henry’s attitude out of irritated resignation—because it was guaranteed to be something that would irritate him, it always was—into curiosity.  
  
“What is it, Lucas?”  
  
“I guess I wanted you to hear it from me, before you heard it through the grapevine.”  Lucas cleared his throat, his face going redder.  
  
Now he had all of Henry’s attention.  Henry leaned a hand on the bench and waved the other.   
  
“Go on,” he prompted.  
  
“Yeah, you see…”  Lucas twisted his hands in the air around his head.  “I might not have been thinking so straight, I had like, this movie night with some friends and there was some, um—well never mind that part—and then they left, and you know it’s been real hot and all, and my apartment is like, _so_ hot, and I couldn’t sleep, and—“  
  
“Lucas, is there a point to this story?”  Henry said, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“I sort of went swimming in the river.”  
  
Henry’s jaw dropped open.  
  
“You did _what_?”  
  
“Naked.”  
  
“I—you—“  
  
“I got arrested.”  
  
“Lucas!”  
  
“I told you I wasn’t thinking straight!”  Lucas cried, throwing his hands in the air like he’d proved his point.  “But I don’t know, somehow I got it in my head that if you did it, it must be awesome.”  Lucas’ gaze defocused, and he smiled.  “Actually it was awesome.  I was finally cool.  But then, you know, cops.”  
  
“Yes, I’m familiar with that particular drawback,”  Henry said dryly.  “And I will remind you, it’s a medical condition.  I can’t help the trips to the river.  They’re not social calls, you know.”  
  
“Yeah, but it _is_ kind of awesome, right?”  Lucas said in a hushed voice, leaning towards Henry, and then his shoulders slumped.  “But I didn’t think I was going to get caught.”  
  
“You never do,”  Henry muttered, then sighed.  “Alright, you’ve told me, I consider myself well-informed.  Now do your best to keep your ‘freak flag’ flying in a lower profile manner.  We can’t have the whole OCME staff popping in and out of the river continuously.”  
  
Lucas gave him a little salute and left for his station.  Henry shook his head, bemused as always by his assistant, and returned to his slides.  


	57. Henry & Lucas:  "That's the weirdest thing you've ever asked me."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Henry and Lucas: "That's the weirdest thing you've ever asked me."

“How do you feel about Scooby Doo?”

Lucas looked up from the liver on the scale to where Henry was standing next to him, fingers laced together in front of him, and with an elevated chin and an inquiring look.  Lucas looked around to make sure Henry was speaking to him, and then at Henry again to make sure he’d heard correctly.

“Scooby Doo?” Lucas said.  Just to clarify.  Just in case.

“Yes, that’s correct.  Scooby Doo.”

“Good?  Favourably?  A general positive, uh, positiveness about Scooby Doo?  I guess a slight affinity with Shaggy?”

“Ah, excellent!” Henry said, clapping his hands together and then hooking an arm around Lucas’ arm and pulling him towards the sinks.  “Then you won’t mind dressing the part.”

“What–what?  Okay… What?”

Henry turned on the taps and pushed Lucas into place to wash his hands.  Without any better idea of what to do, Lucas stripped off his gloves, tossed them, and started washing up.

“We are going undercover with the detectives,”  Henry said, folding his arms and leaning against the counter as Lucas soaped up his hands.  “A ‘team theme,’ I’m told by Jo.  I’m going to be Fred,” Henry said proudly.

“But you’re not blond,” Lucas said.

Henry raised an eyebrow and grinned.

“Not _yet._ ”  
  



	58. Henry & Lucas:  Coffee Shop AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the anon prompt: "lucas/henry, coffee shop au, one of them is the barista"

The paper cup hit the counter, and Lucas automatically reached out to take it, his other hand depositing the proper amount of cash plus tip.  However, the moment his fingers touched the cup, he knew something was wrong.

When you stagger into the same coffee shop every morning for three years, order the same thing, and stagger out having sucked half of it down before you even hit the shop door, you know the feel of a 16oz Americano with—well, with your eyes closed.

“Um, this isn’t my order.”

Lucas looked up into the face of the neatly groomed man behind the counter.  Oh, not the regular guy.  The usual barista at Abe’s Coffee was a surly dude with white hair and glasses, who looked like he couldn’t care less if he was chucking coffee or acid at your face.  But, grumpy old asshole or not, that guy knew Lucas’ order before he even said anything.

“Yes, I know,” the barista said, clasping his hands together in front of him over the black apron that covered his tidy dress shirt, waistcoat and tie.  “But an Americano is a travesty, a bastardization of an art form, sullying what can be truly excellent coffee.  I can’t in good conscience serve it to you.”  He leaned forward and nudged the coffee cup closer to Lucas’ hand with a conspiratorial and slightly condescending wink.  “Trust me, take this instead.”

Lucas was dumbfounded, unable to rally any response.  He looked at the money on the counter, then the cup.  It was a small cup.  There was a fancy pattern on top drawn with dark espresso-coloured foam over the white milky background foam.  It looked expensive.  The barista—Henry, his nametag said—was beaming at him pleasantly, and it was almost offensive how collected and awake the man looked at this time in the morning.  He looked like he rolled out of bed perfectly coiffed and well dressed.

“I don’t—I usually only have the right amount for the Americano,” Lucas said.  “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can—”

“Take the cappuccino,” Henry interrupted him, holding up a hand, and the finality of his tone made Lucas close his mouth like he’d been scolded by his first grade teacher.  “Just take it.  I won’t charge you more.”

“Can you do that?  Isn’t that, like, not okay?”  Lucas couldn’t help it—he was sort of in awe of the guy.  He was slinging coffee, and yet had the dignity and authority of a king.  A king wearing an apron.  How did he do that?  More importantly, how could Lucas figure out how he did it and then do it himself?

“I will happily pay the difference myself if it means stopping yet another palate from being ruined by mediocre beverages,”  Henry said gravely.

“Oh.  Okay.  Well, thanks.”  Lucas picked it up and took a sip, and—actually, yeah.  It was pretty damned good.  He licked foam off his lip and nodded gratefully.  “Thanks, this is good.”

Henry poked at the touch screen to ring in the sale, but it made a horrible blatting beep.  Henry pulled back his hand and frowned at the machine, then with a sigh tried again.  Lucas couldn’t tear his eyes away as the collected, cultured calm fell away to instant frustration, and then the foulest string of curse words he’d ever heard muttered in a British accent cut loose before Henry spun sharply on his heel towards the back of the shop.

“Abe!  Abraham!  This blasted machine is at it again!  I told you that you should have a proper cash register!”

“Henry, you work here, you learn to use this system!”  From the back room, Abe, the owner, came storming in, wiping his hands on a towel.  “All you have to do is touch it—how can you possibly screw up _touching_ something?”

Lucas backed away slowly and made a dash for it as the two started bickering behind the counter about the merits and drawbacks of touch screen technology.

As he walked to work, he savoured his cappuccino.  He might have a new beverage order.  And, he might have a new person to get to know.  Henry seemed like an interesting guy, and he certainly had a kind of grace that Lucas couldn’t even pull off on his best days.  That was the kind of thing he needed to absorb.

He wondered if Henry liked horror movies.  



	59. Henry & Jo:  "What was that for?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the anonymous prompt: _"What was that for?" Jo whispered as she broke the kiss, eyes still locked on Henry's lips._
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://truthisademurelady.tumblr.com/post/121079653755/what-was-that-for-jo-whispered-as-she-broke-the).

"What was that for?" Jo whispered as she broke the kiss, eyes still locked on Henry's lips.  
  
“Because the club owner suspects we’re watching him,” Henry murmured.  
  
Her eyes flicked up to his, and far from the stunned haze she was in after that extremely thorough kiss—she’d been too surprised to do anything other than gasp, at which point Henry had slipped his tongue in her mouth—Henry looked dead serious.  He moved close against and put an arm around her, pulling her into a swaying dance to the beat of the club music, then leaned close to brush his lips against her cheek as he spoke.    
  
“He ordered three of his enforcers to cover all of the exits.  All of them are carrying weapons, Jo.  We already know he has no compunction about killing police officers.”  
  
Jo closed her eyes, a thrill of fear going through her at the same time as Henry’s breath on her skin make her shiver.  
  
“Great.  So what do we do?”  
  
Henry’s hand flicked the button her jacket and slid into it, curving around her waist.  Her eyes widened and she pulled back to ask him what he was doing.  He grinned at her, and she felt a tug at her belt as he unclipped her hidden badge.  The gun they couldn’t sneak into the club, but the badge was still with her, marking her as a police officer.  
  
“I’m going to lose this,” he whispered, his lips barely moving.  “And then we’ll leave.”  
  
“They’re not going to let us walk out if they think we’re cops,” she pointed out, distracted by the feel of his body swaying with hers.  
  
“I believe we can make a convincing case that we came here for other reasons,”  Henry said, an eyebrow raised.  He brought his face close, lips brushing against hers. “If you’re willing?”  
  
“So what, pretend you’re attracted to me and you’re taking me home?”  She tried to keep it light, but she could hear the sound of Henry’s breath over the music, feel his hands, and her heart was going a mile a minute.  
  
“Jo,” he said with a smile in his voice.  “I don’t think I’ll have to pretend very hard.”  
  
He kissed her again, and this time she kissed him back.    
  
This was going to be one hell of a case report, she thought to herself.


	60. Nora Morgan:  Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from sidhebeingbrand: _Something nice happens to Nora after the last flashback we saw._

Nora’s room at the hospital was clean and tidy.  Henry had seen to that, she knew he had.  She knew that there were darker places for people like her to go.  She’d been there, she’d put her Henry there, and though she’d not seen Henry again since the incident, she knew he’d made sure she would be cared for.

They took her for daily walks.  One young lady in particular, with a soft, round face and a gentle tone, took to her and accompanied Nora often, chatting about inconsequencials, the day’s events, gossip about the other patients.

Elizabeth was her name, the young thing, and though the numbness and grief were hard to wade through, she became fond of her.  If she let herself drift, she could almost imagine the child she could have had with Henry, who could have been this young lady’s age, who could have sat at her side by the pond idly feeding the ducks as they talked in the weak May sunlight.

One day, Elizabeth showed with a delighted glow in her cheeks, and when she reached for Nora to help her down the stairs towards the entrance hall for their walk, she saw the simple ring on Elizabeth’s finger.  Nora held her smooth hand and pulled it close to look at it.

“You’ve married,”  Nora said.

Nora’s voice cracked and was a faded, empty thing.  Only upon hearing it now did she realize it had been ages since she’d spoken.  Elizabeth had talked, and Nora had listened, but never spoken back.

Elizabeth blinked at her, and then a luminous smile lit her pretty young face.

“Yes ma’am,” she said.  “This past Sunday.”

Nora clutched her hand, rubbing her thumb over the ring.

“Congratulations, my dear.  You deserve happiness.”

Elizabeth had tears in her eyes, and she stepped closer to put a hand on Nora’s arm gently, then dropped it to her side.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have a gift for you,”  Nora said, suddenly sad that her life had become so meagre as to not even be able to provide such a simple courtesy. 

“I do believe that hearing you speak is the most wonderful gift you could have given me,” Elizabeth said, still smiling brilliantly.

“Oh, nonsense,” Nora said, and she pulled the girl close to give her a kiss on her pink cheek.  She looped her arm in Elizabeth’s and then proceeded down the stairs.  “Now, tell me of your young man.”

They walked as usual, and Elizabeth talked as usual, but this time Nora spoke as well, and for the first time in ages, a small spark of something that bore a resemblance to contentment shone in her heart.


	61. Henry & Jo:  Bodyswapped [mature]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the anonymous prompt: _Pairing: Mortinez. AU setting: Jo and Henry wake up to find they've bodyswapped._

Jo stood behind Henry, hair dryer and brush in hand, slowly brushing out and drying the dark waves of her hair.  Was it still her hair if Henry was currently in possession of the body to which it was attached?

They’d settled into the routine of mutual grooming each morning; Jo fixing her hair and makeup, still able to do it better from an external position than Henry could, and Henry styling his curly hair and artfully sculpting his facial hair to his preferred just-shy-of-scruffy length.  She was amused to discover that his routine took near as long as hers.

“Jo?”

She met Henry’s eyes in the bathroom mirror.  Under Henry’s control, her own features were so much more mobile and expressive than she ever remembered them being.  He was looking at her with eyebrows knit with worry, and she smiled reassuringly.

“Sorry, just thinking.”  Henry’s voice, so much deeper to her ears than she ever expected to hear resonating in her own head, rumbled from her mouth and yet was barely heard over the buzzing roar of the hair dryer.

She stroked her fingers through the half-dry strands of hair, separating another lock to pull the brush through, and Henry sighed, eyes closing. 

There was nothing more to say anyway.  They were stuck in this purgatory, bound by forced intimacy.  Henry had her body, she had his, and neither of them knew what to do.  Uncomfortable lines were crossed on an hourly basis, each of them struggling to make it through each day without losing their minds.

Henry had told Abe, and Abe had let Jo come to stay—which was making everything easier and harder.  Here, they could at least be themselves, instead of having to pretend to be each other.

But here, in the intimacy of Henry’s home, with far too much time together, it was getting harder and harder to remember who she was.

Jo’s fingers tightened in the long hair in her grip, the brush pulled a little too hard, and Henry winced and grunted.

“Sorry,” she said.

She flipped the hair dryer off and put it on the counter heavily.  Her heart was pounding again.  She’d let herself get upset.  It happened so easily these days—partly stress, all the unknown in this stupidly impossibly situation, but partly because Henry’s body had a mind of its own, and turned out he was incredibly emotional and prone to panic.  It drove her crazy, these melodramatic spikes, like she was on some constant pms roller coaster beyond her control.

“Are you okay?”  Henry asked softly.

She closed her eyes, unsteady.

“Yeah,” she lied.

But she wasn’t, and it wasn’t going to change any time soon.  There was no reason for this switch, and therefore no leads on how to fix it.

The scent of her hair gel drifted from her hair, and she leaned forward to pursue the familiar smell.  The strands pressed to her nose, catching in the stubble on her—Henry’s?—chin.  She squeezed her eyes tighter, picturing the hair as part of her again, of the feel of it on her pillow as she woke in the morning, swirling around her cheeks, tickling her nose.

She felt Henry tuck back against her, letting her lean into him.  Her arms wrapped around, and she put her hands to the soft satin of her work shirt.  Her shirt, familiar blue, buttons that were just a little too big for the button holes and had to be forced, but she’d loved the texture and feel, and it had been a quick purchase.  She stroked the material as she rubbed her face to her long hair.

The curve of her own waist, the round of her chest, the length of her neck.  Her own jaw, lips, nose, eyes.  She ran her hands over the bone structure that had been hers forever, over skin that had tanned and chapped, been injured and healed again, that turned an ugly red when she cried, but was hers.

She settled on her chest, hands together, feeling her own heart pound under her hands, the rise and fall of her rib cage.

“Jo.” 

Henry, with her voice.  She squeezed her eyes tighter, squeezed her arms tighter, pressing their bodies together.

“Jo, it’s okay.”

If they were close like this, she could feel her voice resonating in her body, almost like it was hers again.  If she held tight enough, could she ease back into the space where she belonged?

She stroked her hands over her chest, over the dent from the bullet that had clipped her that night on the roof of Grand Central.  She stroked at the skin, finger catching on her bra strap, and she worked her way underneath it to get her palm over the scar.

With her other hand, she sought out the other scar she knew—older, more familiar yet—an appendectomy when she was thirteen, fast and unexpected, a week spent recovering and missing school while watching crappy reruns of Three’s Company and Columbo.  She tugged the shirt from her waistband, slipping her hand under the material to work into the tight jeans, to find the line of scar tissue.

These flaws were hers, little signposts of the life she’d lived, drawn on her body.  She clenched her hands, cupping her palms over these two memories.

Her breathing was harsh, and when her hands moved, her body leaned back into her, squirming.  She opened her eyes and met her own face in the mirror.  Cheeks warm, lips flushed, eyes dark, and Henry’s face, so much the same—a look that she’d seen over drinks and dinners and far too many late night not-quite-stakeouts because he wasn’t a police officer, he was a medical examiner, and she was making up all these excuses to be near him and have him look at her with those bedroom eyes…

Another boundary they’d not yet crossed, certainly not before this whole fiasco.  Maybe they’d been close—but they hadn’t even crossed the threshold of a kiss yet, even if her dreams had been colourful and filled with the idea of it.  She’d been considering it the very night they’d switched.

“This is—this is a little confusing,” Henry said, and she knew that tone of her voice.  The one that tried to be calm, but wasn’t.

“Yeah.  Yeah, it is.”

She was wrapped around him—around herself—like an octopus, pressing him into the counter, and very helpful instincts were screaming at her for what to do, but she very carefully pulled her hands from Henry’s clothing and backed away.  The moment she stopped touching him, Henry slumped forward, bracing himself on the sink.

Both of them were very turned on, and she was _so_ weirded out.  From the contorted facial expressions Henry was making, she figured he was too.

“I think I need a moment,” Henry said, and he looked up into the mirror to look at her.  “If you’ll excuse me.”

He straightened and fled the bathroom, leaving her behind.  She wondered if she should follow him and apologize, but the moment she tried to take a step she realized there were other complications at play here.  She looked down at herself, at the body she was borrowing from Henry.

Well, that was definitely an erection. 

She groaned and leaned back against the wall.  Being a dude _really_ sucked.


	62. The Morgan Family:  Matching Outfits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Abe and Henry and matching outfits

“No,” Henry said.

“Henry, you look adorable.”

Abigail had a hand over her mouth, but the look in her eyes was more than enough to tell him that she was trying her damndest not to laugh outright at him.  Henry would happily cop to his vanity, and the indignity of wearing this hideousness plus having his wife giggling at him was too much.

“I absolutely refuse."

“They’re all the rage,” she said from behind her hand.

“Many things have been ‘the rage,’ darling.  I managed to to avoid Zoot suits, I believe I shall avoid this too.”

He was about to take it off when Abe came out of his room, buttoning up his last buttons, and stopped with the wide-eyed wonder only a five year old can manage.  He looked at Henry, and Henry looked at Abe with dread.  Abe started to smile in delight.

Henry turned to Abigail with a desperate look.

“This is unfair,” Henry said.  “This is blatant manipulation.”

“Daddy!” Abe cried.  “We match!”

“Abigail!” Henry protested.

It was too late.  Abigail shoulders were shaking, and she squeezed her eyes shut and tears were at the corners.  Henry huffed in frustration, and then morphed that into an uneasy smile when Abe clung to his leg.

“We match!  That’s so great!” Abe cried.  “We look _great_!”

In that moment, Henry knew that he would indeed be wearing a yellow, pink, and orange Hawaiian shirt to the community luau-themed barbeque.  Identical in every way to his son’s.

Henry narrowed his eyes at Abigail, and she winked back.

“Two for one special, very affordable.”

“I’ll be sure to think of a way to thank you accordingly,” Henry said through gritted teeth, patting Abe on the head.


	63. Hanson & Abe:  The Anniversary Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from maxisthenewalex: Mike Hanson decides to go to Abe's Antiques to buy Karen an anniversary gift.

Detective Hanson showed up at the shop a minute before closing time, and Abe was just locking the door when he saw Hanson exiting his car across the street. Abe’s first thought was that maybe he was here for Henry, but as Hanson hustled across the street and towards him, Abe recognized the frantic, sweaty look on his face.

“Birthday?” Abe asked, leaning out the door, speaking before Hanson even had an opportunity to speak.

“Anniversary. Fifteenth,” Hanson said. He ran a hand over his cheek, puffing out a breath with beleaguered exhaustion. “I got nothing. She’s gonna kill me.”

Yep, Abe could spot ‘em every time.

“Come on in, we’ll fix you up.”

Unfortunately, Hanson had worked himself into a frenzy, and had become unsure to the point of incapability. Abe was starting to regret his charity in keeping the shop open and letting him choose. Should have just shoved something in a bag, told Hanson to hand over a few bucks, and sent him on his way. Now he was stuck with Mr. Indecisive trying to purchase the magically nonexistent piece of merchandise that would scream _“I love you and value you, honey, and yes I bought this months ago in anticipation of this celebration of our love.”_

“Bit…fussy, isn’t it?”

Abe looked at the ring in his hand, was about to make a nasty comment, then clamped his mouth shut. He put it back in the velvet box gently and back in the display case.

“Less fussy. Got it.” Abe pushed the jewelry to the side, and then gestured off towards the window. “Okay, what about a nice vase?”

Hanson snorted and shook his head, nervously jingling his keys in his pocket.

“With my two monsters? I might as well buy her a bag of dust.”

“Okay,” Abe growled, “No vase.”

Hanson’s phone buzzed and he pulled it off the clip on his belt to look at it. Abe swore he could see the blood drain from his face.

“Goddamn it, she’s texting to see if I’m stuck in traffic.” He turned helpless eyes on Abe. “What the hell do I do?”

Fine, time for the big guns.

“Do you trust me?” Abe said.

Hanson stared at him, then shook his head.

“No, why should I?”

Abe took that in, then shrugged.

“Fair enough, you probably shouldn’t. But anyway, just take this, and go. Believe me, it’ll work.”

Abe fished out a locket from a drawer and held it up, and Hanson looked at it curiously.

“What’s this?”

Abe pried it open, and inside a little accordion-hinged series of portrait ovals unfolded to show four empty portrait spaces. Hanson’s brow was wrinkled.

“Look,” Abe said impatiently. “The point is to make her understand you’re thinking of her, right? That you love her, that you love your family. This is so she knows you get that. A picture of each of you, all together, always there for her to have close to her heart, and to know that you put them there for her.”

Hanson took the swinging locket in the palm of his hand and stared at it carefully. He looked up at Abe.

“Can you write that down?” he said.

Abe wiped a hand over his face. God, how had this man made it to fifteen years of marriage?


	64. Henry & Jo:  Accidentally fell asleep on each other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Accidentally fell asleep on each other" henry/jo/jenry.

Henry woke slowly, not certain where he was at first. He was stiff, half his body numb and cold and half warm, curled on his side.

“Hey, you awake?” Jo whispered.

Her breath ruffled his hair. Henry sucked in a breath and sat upright from where he was leaning on Jo, his head pillowed on her shoulder.

“Sorry. I must have dozed off,” he mumbled, trying to pull himself out of the deep sleep.

“It’s okay. Not like we have much to do here.”

“No progress?” His voice was rough, sluggish.

“Nope.”

The elevator hadn’t budged in hours, and though Jo was still buzzing on the coffee she’d drowned herself in to stay awake through the end of their day, Henry was exhausted. He was an early bird, a creature of regular schedules by nature, and started nodding off. At some point he’d slipped deep enough that he’d lolled to the side and leaned against her.

She hadn’t objected, and didn’t appear offended by his accidental transgression, but she was still studying his face. He wondered if he had sleep in his eyes, and he rubbed at them. She smiled.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing. Well, I don’t know. I never get to see you relaxed. Nice to know that you can.”

He was groggy enough that the conversation had the distorted, half-awake quality of dreams so real ones wakes thinking it’s actually happened. Surely the intimate tone of Jo’s voice, the lingering scent of her shampoo, and the temptation to lean back into her side, to tuck his nose against her neck and breathe deep to recapture it, were all the stuff of dreams. He’d had those dreams before, had left them behind each day, but reality was blurring on him.

He didn’t mind terribly. He smiled back, eyelids heavy as he leaned his head against the elevator wall.

“I relax,” he said. “And you’re one to talk, Jo. When do you relax?”

She made a hum of agreement.

“I guess,” she said. Her gaze flicked over him. “You can go back to sleep, it’s fine. I promise not to draw moustaches on you.”

“I’m being poor company,” he said softly.

“No, you’re not.”

The quiet counter to his apology was so precise that it struck him in the heart, spurring it to life and sending a surge of energy into him that sharpened his attention, bringing him out of his twilight state to recognize the depth of her gaze, the way her eyes hadn’t drifted from him, that he was close enough to lean forward and kiss her if he wanted.

She recognized the change in his alertness, and she bit her bottom lip in a way that drew his attention to her mouth.

Damned if he didn’t want to kiss her. He wanted to far too often.

“Henry,” she started, but didn’t seem to have anything to finish whatever thought came after.

He swallowed, heart surging, knowing that he’d given up on resistance. Consequences felt so far away right now. He leaned towards her, and she didn’t pull back.

They jolted as the elevator shook, and with a groan started to move. Henry and Jo both started back from each other, bracing against the floor as they shifted and shook. A voice crackled over the speaker.

_“We gotcha, guys. Finally got the repair crew here. Hang on, have you out in a minute.”_

Jo scrambled up and grabbed up her coat to shrug into it. After a second Henry followed her lead, taking a moment to straighten his waistcoat and tie into proper order. She didn’t meet his eye again, and though he checked to make sure she was okay, he didn’t say anything. Their momentarily crossed boundaries were back in place.

The doors slid open to the main floor, and the worried faces of the elevator repair crew.

 _Time to wake up_ , Henry thought.


	65. Henry & Jo:  Immortal!Jo AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from bisexywebslinger: Henry/Jo; Jo's the immortal and Henry's just found out

Jo hopped up on the morgue slab while Henry busied himself laying out syringes and blood collection tubes.  By the time Henry turned around with an alcohol wipe in his hand, she already had her sleeve rolled up and her arm presented.

He paused, looking her over before taking a step towards her.  He took her arm and wiped a patch in the crook of her elbow, and with ease and precision grabbed a syringe, found the vein and slid the needle in with barely a pinch.  She watched the first collection tube fill, and the fast and efficient movements of Henry’s hands as he switched it out for a new one.

“You must have been a good doctor,” she said.

“I was indeed.”

She smiled.  Even rattled, standing on the cusp of not-quite-belief, Henry’s blustery confidence was automatic.  He gave her a half-smile as he glanced up, then returned his attention to the needle.

She knew the story now—his wife’s murder, his breakdown, his decision to leave his medical practice and turn to working with dead bodies.  It was what had brought them together when she’d met him on a crime scene.  Henry’s fresh loss was so very familiar, she’d been drawn to him.  Even three decades later, sometimes she still missed Sean as though he’d died only yesterday.

Jo shouldn’t have let herself become as fond of Henry as she did.  She’d dragged him along on too many crime scenes, put him in too much danger.  He was only a doctor, she should have known better, not been so selfish in enjoying his company, telling herself it was all for work and not for her.  If she hadn’t brought him along, he wouldn’t have been facing a gun.  She wouldn’t have thrown herself in the way, wouldn’t have been shot, wouldn’t have bled while he tried so hard to save her—

She blinked out of her thoughts when Henry withdrew the needle and pressed a small cotton ball to the needle mark.

“Press for a minute, and it will stop bleeding,” he said softly, and she took over the pressure, her fingers touching his before he pulled his hand away.

“You won’t find anything, Henry,” she said.

“Have you had anyone run tests before?”  He took one of the vials and held it up to the light, looking at her blood and giving it a shake before setting the vial back with the other three in a samples tray.  “It’s possible that if someone knew what they were looking for, they might find answers.”

“What, like little magical sprites in my blood keeping me alive?” she asked, unable to keep the sharpness from her tone.  “Henry, seriously.  I gave up trying to find an answer a long time ago.  I am what I am, there’s no reason for it, it just is.  This is my life.”

“And is that all there is to it?” he asked.  He turned to look at her, eyes soft and empathetic.  “Jo, I don’t know that I can give you any answers, but I can look.  I can try.  If you don’t want that…”

He was gentle and sincere, and Jo pulled back from her instinctive acidic defensiveness.

“No.”  She swallowed down her nervousness.  “No, it’s—it’s something I’ve never really had the opportunity to do before, so… Yeah.  I guess I want to try.”

Henry’s shoulders dropped with a relieved sigh.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to think I was forcing you.”

She tilted her head to the side, looking at him.  All this impossibility thrown at a man who considered himself governed by science, who’d struggled with a loss that had nearly sunk her thirty years ago, who’d managed to come back with more verve and confidence than she thought she’d ever possessed, and he was concerned about her well-being.  She smiled, and he looked back at her, a little confused.

“You’re a very sweet man, Henry Morgan,” she said.

His smile was small but warm.

“I care about you, Jo.  Nothing has changed how I feel.  I hope you know that.”

She swallowed, tears filling her eyes.  She nodded.

“Yeah, I know.”

There might be more to their story yet, she thought.


	66. Abe & Adam:  Tell me about the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon prompt: Adam & Abe - Tell me about the past

On occasion, when weekdays were slow and Henry was busy at work, Abe would go to the park and take up a station at the chess tables.  Collecting new moves to thwart Henry and his unstoppable strategies was a decent pass-time.  With luck, he’d live long enough to beat him one more time.

He could beat all but the real masters these days.  He shook hands with the young woman who’d nearly taken him down before he’d pulled some fancy moves in the end game.  She left him to resetting the board with gracious thanks for the game.

A shadow fell across the board and someone settled into the seat across from him. 

“Hello, Abraham.”

Abe looked up and instinctively pulled back in his seat.  Bland expression, cap shading his eyes, adjusting his coat as he made himself comfortable.  Adam.

Impossible.  _Impossible_.

“You should be—”

“In a hospital?  In a coma?  I’m immortal, not indestructible.  Four years is long enough for anyone in that state to degrade and die.” 

Adam’s mouth twitched at the corner, the only small indication of emotion that four years trapped in his own body had made any impression.

Abe looked wildly to either side, where other chess partners were focused on their games.  He was not sure what to do.  Did he run?  Did he call Henry and warn him?  Abe put a hand on his pocket where his cell phone was.  At best he might be able to leave a message at his office.  Of course, that would only make Henry come running.

Adam folded his hands in his lap as he crossed his legs, waiting out Abe’s thought process with unnatural patience.

“What do you want?”  Abe asked.  He tried to keep his voice steady, but it still shook.

“To catch up.  Four years is a long time.  For some people, anyway.”  Adam cast his gaze to a neighbouring table with an eyebrow raised, and then refocused on Abe.  “Speaking of, how’s dear old Dad?”

Abe swallowed heavily.


	67. Henry & Jo:  "How long have you been doing this to yourself?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _“How long have you been doing this to yourself?” Henry and Jo_ from Kythe42.
> 
> A missing scene from somewhere in and around ep 1x12.

“How long have you been doing this to yourself?”  Jo asked.

Henry leaned back in his office chair, looking up in surprise.  Hanson had left once the autopsy report was done, and Henry had assumed Jo had gone with him.  Instead, she’d lingering in his office.

“I’m sorry?”

“You can’t keep pulling hours like this.”

He frowned, and then a glance past Jo to the morgue beyond revealed Lucas peeking at them now and again from his work station to spy on their conversation.  Apparently he had taken it upon himself to share his concern about Henry’s long working hours.  

Since his return to work after his stress leave ended with the murder of Jason Fox, Henry had come in early and left late every day, diving into the endless work that could occupy his time; digging up cold cases and reviewing old evidence, whatever he could find to keep himself busy.  He pressed his lips together in irritation.

“Jo, it’s fine, I assure you.”

"Yeah, right.”  She sighed, and then pulled on his door.  “Just saying, there’s drinks tonight.  Six o’clock, if you can make it.”

She gave him a last assessing look, and then left his office.  He noted her shrug as Lucas tossed her an inquisitive look on her way past, and then she was gone.

He tapped his pen on the desk.  It was just ticking past five, and his report was nearly finished.  He could easily sign off on it by half past, and be done for the night if he didn’t start anything new.

For once, the lure of company was stronger than the reliable promise of academic distraction.  He bowed his head to his work again, and proceeded to finish up his last notes.

He would go.  At the very least, he could enjoy the look of shock on Jo’s face when he actually showed up.  She knew she didn’t expect him to think twice about it.  He smiled at the idea.  Yes, that would make it worth it.  He liked keeping her on her toes. 


	68. Henry & James:  "Please, don't tell anyone."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: _“Please, don’t tell anyone.” Henry & James_ from avalonsilver.
> 
> A missing scene from the flashback story in 1x03.

“Please don’t tell anyone.  Not yet, I need to—”

Mid-sentence, James’ chest rattled and he started to cough.  One spasm begot another, and soon he was stooped over, hand pressed to his mouth as the barking, painful coughs wracked his body.

Henry braced his friend until the fit passed.  James was sweating and shaking by the time he caught his breath and straightened up again.

“I don’t think I’ll have to tell them, James.”

Henry tried to offer James a hand to sit, but James waved him away with irritation.  He collapsed into the chair by the little window in James’ apartment, and he gestured for Henry to take the one opposite him.  Henry took it and crossed his legs, hand kneading the brim of his hat as he rested it on his lap.

“I know.  I thought I’d have more time, but it’s progressing quickly.”

Henry nodded.  James would be required to stop work, to cease contact with patients.

“We’ll have time to focus on your treatment, at least.  I have some ideas.  There’s no reason not to start now.”

James’ weary smile was a dim reflection of the usual boyish charm he sported.

“What, are you going to doctor me, Henry?  You know we make the worst patients.”

“James, we’re going to fight it.  I’m not going to let you face this on your own.”

He leaned forward and offered James his hand.  After a moment, James relented and took it, shook Henry’s hand and gave it a squeeze.  

“Should have known you’d take it personally.  You’ve got a heart that bleeds for the whole world.”   He shook his head with a small huff of laughter.  “All right, Henry.  Where do you want to start?”


	69. Henry & Jo:  Scars and memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the anon prompt: 
> 
>  
> 
> _Henry and Jo are together - getting changed or in bed. Henry sees her scars from their first case together - hand and shoulder. He sees a few others and asks about them as she hasn't told he yet where she got them. I thought about this randomly. :) angst/Romance/Comfort_

Jo tied up her hair and pulled off her soiled jacket. She flung it into the trunk of her car with a wrinkled nose.

“This is disgusting.”

“Remind me not to follow you next time you decide to chase a suspect into the sewer,” Henry said. His jacket followed hers. “This suit is well beyond saving.”

“Ever think of trying casual Friday?”

He deigned not to answer, and instead freed his watch chain and tucked the pocket watch into his trouser pockets.

The scene was secured now, uniformed police officers on site to secure the perpetrator Jo had finally cornered and arrested after following him down a manhole. The summer heat was not helping their situation, and with a sigh of defeat, Henry shucked off his waistcoat and dress shirt. His white undershirt was relatively clean and would do for now.

Jo, reaching a similar conclusion herself, took off her blouse. Henry raised an eyebrow at the black camisole she had beneath. It was trimmed with a small edging of lace around the décolletage, and suited her well in its tasteful simplicity.

“What?” Her tone was challenging.

“Nothing,” he said innocently, though his permitted himself another brief look.

“Mm-hm.”

Her slight smile was enough to forgive him his unsubtle appraisal. He had never been good at pretending indifference to a pretty figure.

Jo balled up her blouse and tossed it in after the rest of her clothes, then turned to sit on the edge of the trunk to pull off her sodden shoes and socks. Below her collarbone, half-tucked beneath the thin camisole strap, was a round scar with irregular edges. Still in the first year of healing, it had yet to lose its pinkish hue. It was from the night she’d been shot, on the roof of Grand Central Station.

Jo looked up at him as she put one shoe in the trunk and caught him looking again. She rolled her eyes.

“Seriously, Henry. If this is all it takes to get you going, you must love summer in New York.”

“What? Oh, no! No, sorry,” he said with an apologetic smile. “I was looking at your scar.”

She followed his nod to look at her shoulder. She put a hand to it, fingertips covering it in a move that looked like a practiced unconscious gesture. On the back of her hand was the less prominent chemical burn from the same case. Half his fault as well, even if he had been trying to save her life. If he’d been a little faster, she might have been spared both injuries. Even upon first meeting her he’d left an indelible mark on her. No one in his life walked away undamaged, no matter what he did.

“I had an instructor when I was going through Academy training who said that scars were a reminder to be grateful you’re alive.” She bent over and pulled off the other shoe and then her socks, glancing sidelong at him. “I’m not the only one who should be grateful.”

In a gesture that echoed hers, Henry touched his chest to cover the scar that was so much older than hers, hidden by the thin white cotton undershirt. _Grateful to be alive_. He had felt many things over the years when he looked at his scar, but he couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt that.

Jo touched the hand on his chest. He blinked, not having noticed her stand and face him. She tilted her head to the side, examining him with the curious patience he always associated with her.

“You’re lucky. A shot like that should have killed you.” Her fingers were very warm against the back of his hand.

“I suppose so.” He smiled brightly. “Then I wouldn’t have been here to enjoy the sensorial experience of being covered in sewer water in July.”

She paused a second before she laughed gently and dropped her hand away. He hadn’t missed the brief flash of disappointment. He was becoming very familiar with that expression on her face, and there was always a little stab of guilt that went with putting it there. Nonetheless, he relaxed when she dug for her car keys in her pocket and slammed the trunk lid shut, letting the matter slide without further comment.

“Come on, I’ll run you home, and then I am going straight home for the longest shower I’ve ever had in my life.”


	70. Henry & Jo:  Friends with Benefits [mature]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the anon prompt: _Henry/Jo, Friend with Benefits_
> 
> Rating for this drabble: mature

Jo’s living room coffee table was covered in case photos and empty take-out containers, and Henry had long since abandoned his jacket and tie and taken up one end of the couch, a sheaf of photos in his hand.

He was going cross-eyed staring at them.  Photo after photo rotated through his hand—bloody kitchen which was the scene of a fight, dining room where the body was found, front yard marshy from rain but undisturbed—no sign in any of them that anyone had been near the home other than their victim.

“There has to be something we’re missing,” he said to himself.  “There’s no way our killer got in and out of the house without leaving some evidence.”

Jo was stretched out on the couch with her head resting in his lap.  She’d drifted off about half an hour ago, her breath falling even and soft, but at his muttering she shifted and sighed.  She looked at her wrist and groaned.

“Henry, it’s nearly midnight.  Whatever we’re missing, it can wait until tomorrow.”

“It’s here, I know it is.”  Henry stroked her head absently and Jo’s eyes closed again.

“Maybe with some fresh eyes we can figure it out.”  She shifted to her side and snuggled into his lap.

“I just need to focus.”

Her nose brushed his groin as she settled in, and her breath was hot through the thin material of his dress pants.  He slid his hand over her hair again and she exhaled, another whispered caress, and despite himself he stirred.  It was awfully hard to ignore her mouth so close to him, especially when he’d so recently learned exactly what she could do with it.

That line of thought didn’t help.

Jo noted his reaction and she smiled, this time purposefully nuzzling against him.  Henry raised an eyebrow, brushing his knuckles against her cheek as he looked down at her.

“I hardly think this is helping me focus.”

“Well, how about you take a break?”

She rubbed her nose along the line of his growing erection, and Henry sucked in a breath.  Their arrangement worked far too well—the late night cases were all the more pleasant for the resulting sex, and neither of them felt overly obligated to think too hard about what it meant.

Jo nuzzled him again, and Henry gave up and tossed the photos onto the table.  He coaxed her upright and stole a kiss from her.  She was sleepy and pliant, and her sigh was deep and content as he ran his hand up her leg, fingers sweeping gently against the inside of her thigh.

“A break may be in order.  The endorphins released by orgasm can be extremely helpful in stimulating the thought processes.”

“You say the sweetest things, Henry.”


	71. Henry & Abigail:  Role Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the anon prompt: _"Henry/Abigail, role play_
> 
> Henry and Abigail like to pretend to be strangers who meet in more conventional places than war zones.

Henry positioned himself in the back of the bar, able to observe without being seen. His drink, carefully nursed throughout the last half hour, was nearly done.

Abigail’s deep blue dress was nearly black in the dim light, and her upswept hair played to the beauty of her elegant features. She was idly toying with a napkin on the bar top, her legs crossed, her one foot jogging slightly as she waited. He knew he was pushing it, making her wait so long, but the anticipation was half the fun, as far as he was concerned.

Not that her wait was uneventful. Three men had approached her, each trying their luck. She was friendly and engaging, but they failed to draw her into conversation, eventually drifting away.

Henry saw the fourth drawing up his tactical plan before he finally made his own approach, sidling up beside her and saying something with a smile. Abigail responded, and the man chuckled slightly, leaning forward to speak again, his voice low. Abigail sipped the last of her drink and nodded, and the man gestured for the bartender to bring them another round. Henry straightened in his chair, his attention sharpening.

The response she was giving this one was different, and he’d be a fool to not see why. Abigail had a type, and the fellow fit well enough—tall, dark hair and strong features, and Henry could just hear the deep, smooth voice as he flirted with Abigail. She thought this man was attractive. While Henry knew that it wouldn’t lead anywhere, it was just enough to spark a flare of jealousy.

The added challenge of trying to steal her out from under another man’s attentions appealed to his vanity. Time to make his move. He’d let the game go on long enough.

“There’s one of my favourite bands playing at this great dance place.” Abigail’s would-be suitor took her hand with a sly smile. “I have a feeling you’re a fantastic dancer.”

Abigail chuckled lightly.

“I confess, I do love dancing.”

Henry found a spot behind the man and ordered himself a drink. He flicked a glance over the man’s shoulder towards Abigail, to where their hands were joined. He sighed. Too easy.

He accepted the pint and slid his cash towards the bartender as he leaned towards the man’s ear.

“As does your wife, I’d wager.”

The man swivelled his head around back towards Henry, a confused frown on his face. Henry smiled sanguinely at him.

“Indent from your wedding band. Hard to miss.”

“How about you back off, friend?” He dropped Abigail’s hand and turned to face Henry, moving into his space with a threatening glare, backing him against the bar.

“Certainly. None of my business, but I’ve always thought a lady should be in possession of all the facts about what kind of man she’s speaking with.”

Abigail’s discreet cough was barely sufficient to cover her derisive snort of laughter, and he shot her a look with a cheerful wink. Rich, coming from him, who’d told her nothing but lies until that night five years ago when he’d died in her arms.

The man grabbed Henry by the lapel of his jacket with a sneer. Being caught out had embarrassed him, and it was curdling quickly to anger.

“How about you and I have this conversation out back?” he said, the words hissed through clenched teeth.

“Why don’t you try your luck at the dance hall instead?” Abigail cut in smoothly, her fingers wrapping around the man’s wrist. Her tone was light, but warning. “I’m sure there are many women there who enjoy dancing as much as you do.”

He glared at Henry for another second, and then with a disgusted scoff he released him with a shove and turned. He marched away without a second glance back at either of them.

Henry shrugged his shoulders and tugged at his jacket to settle it back into place. Abigail raised her eyebrows when he smiled at her.

“Well, as I seem to have scared off your suitor, the least I can do is offer you company in his stead.”

“Really,” she said dryly. She shuffled back on her seat, crossing her legs again.

She was going to make him work for it. Very well. He grabbed a stool and settled beside her.

“Absolutely. A beautiful woman such as yourself shouldn’t drink alone.” Henry held out his hand. “I’m Henry.”

She scanned him up and down before she held out her hand. It was warm in his grasp, and her smile was as thrilling as the first time he’d met her.

“Abigail. A pleasure to meet you, Henry.”


	72. Henry & James:  Riding [explicit]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the anon prompt: _Riding - Henry/James_
> 
> James Carter introduces Henry to the bath houses of New York. Rating for this drabble is explicit.
> 
> Loosely a sequel to [this drabble](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3099611/chapters/8423431).

The waters at Bath had been a restorative decadence in Henry’s youth. His later travels around the Continent throughout the 1800s had confirmed his love of the Turkish baths and hot springs, and it was a relief to escape into the steam and heat. Air nearly too hot to breath in the saunas, water heavy with minerals, and the uncomplicated companionship of strangers. In Henry's experience it was necessary to always keep one eye open for danger and pursuit, but the baths were one of life’s neutral zones—everyone could slip into the waters, temporarily equal in their humanity.

It was simply relaxation to begin with, but as times and perceptions changed, it was an easy place to meet men with certain tastes. A look and the nod of a head or the careful brush of a hand was all it took, and if the mood struck Henry could enjoy an entirely different restorative venture.

New York’s private bath houses were charming in their camaraderie, and Henry liked the trips. The first time James took him he marvelled at the straight-forward simplicity of such a physical meeting place. The showers, the saunas, the hallways, were all acceptable meeting grounds for the interested. James made no assumptions upon their entry, and had only offered to vouch for him if Henry wanted a membership. His hopeful, longing gaze was unmistakable despite his gentlemanly largesse, however, and it was a short trip from the accidental bump of his hand against Henry’s leg to one of the private rooms available for patrons in need.

Still sweating from the stifling heat of the steam room, slick with the massage oil available to them, they made the most of the afternoon. Behind these walls, there was none of James’ circumspect flirting, and Henry was soon stretched flat on a bench holding James’ bucking hips as though he might die should he let go. Legs astride Henry, skin flushed red with heat and passion, James worked himself with his hand hard and fast as he slid up and down with ease. Henry was sure he’d never forget the abandon of the moment.

Half the joy was seeing all aspects of his friend, his colleague, and now his lover, brought together in this unguarded moment. Henry snapped his hips up to meet each downward slam of James’ body, and James’ head rolled back with a groan, mixing with the faint sounds of other men elsewhere enjoying the same indulgences. Uncomplicated companionship, open and accepted in this space; no winks and nods, but simple desire and satisfaction. Henry’s own release was quick in the making, anticipation and novelty overexciting him to the point of no return, and James was not far behind. There was none of the sheepish silence James held fast to when they were in Henry’s apartment, but a guttural and heartfelt animalistic noise of fulfilment.

The dopey, loose ease of the experience left Henry floating when they left, his step springing and jaunty as James walked alongside him. James chatted easily about the inconsequentials of finding dinner and adventure for the night, and his arm slung about Henry’s shoulder at some ribald joke was a memory of the afternoon.

Henry spent so much of his life hiding that the moments where he could strip away the artifice and be himself were deeply treasured. The waters washed away the complications of his life and left him just a man. Within these walls, for a short time, he was on the hallowed ground of equality—no more or less than his companions for all his added years.


	73. Henry & Jo:  Potentialities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry sees many futures spreading out from each moment in time. Until you make a decision, every future is possible. With Jo, he puts off the decision as long as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No prompt, just me mucking around.

In two hundred some-odd years, one becomes accustomed to paths not taken, crossroads left in the dust, opportunities lost. _What could have been_ is a guessing game that will drive you mad, if you let it. A certain equilibrium, even if it is a fatalistic one, can be achieved with any moment that has passed.

Much harder is seeing all the opportunities that spread before you, radiating from you like strands of a spiderweb, each with a different destination. Not travel, not jobs or schooling, no—not those kinds of adventures. Nearly any of those routes taken will teach you many things, and so nothing is really lost, but always gained, no matter which strand you follow. Often the opportunities not taken will be there to revisit when the time comes.

People; they are the crossroads that bring and leave scattered behind the most paths not taken. Those can never be revisited once left behind, and are the most heartbreaking to look back upon and wonder, _what if?_

When you first meet someone, they are just another passing face, but as you get to know them, as they grow in your life and in your heart, they become a series of potentialities. Each could sway you in a radically different direction. Each step is a moment in which everything could change.

Unspoken, unresolved love; it’s giddy beyond belief.

To stand alongside their brilliance is to bask in it. To be there to see their smile, their successes, their losses, fills you with a sweetness that is so beautiful it’s nearly painful. Because neither of you has chosen a path yet, you are granted the freedom to be all things at once. You can skate through years like this.

Each playful joke could be the start of an embrace; each evening walk home could be when you take their hand; each confidence shared could be the prelude to the moment you finally, finally lean forward and kiss them. You live in the heady nexus where everything is possible.

However, once action is taken, you cannot step back. And so, you linger.

Of course, there are only so many opportunities to be had. Temptation turns to frustration, and soon you no longer walk side-by-side, but start to drift apart. The path becomes set; inaction is a passive choice, but one that eventually takes hold, however slow it comes to fruition.

Is it better to hold all those potential futures within your grasp, tight and jealously hoarding them as you try to live in them all at once, or is it better to boldly choose one? Roll the dice, cast your lot, and act?

For Henry, it was always Time that made the decisions for him. If it did not act fast enough, he hurried his inaction along by removing himself from temptation and walking away from people. In the meanwhile, he gloried in all the potential futures he pictured, imagined, longed for, like a man flirting with the idea of freedom beyond the bars of his prison.

For a while, Jo was nothing but potential. Her smile was intoxicating, and every moment was an opportunity. He walked the path of multiple futures for as long as he could, knowing the end of his window was fast approaching.

It was her, in the end, who made the decision and chose for them. Henry would continue on alone without her. He was left on the street corner with her honesty, her thanks, and her goodbye.

Clever Jo, making the better choice. She would be safer without him, and, in time, happier. He couldn’t ask more than that for the end of their walk together.

For himself, he knew the way ahead with painful familiarity. Him, his work, his life, stretching on for eternity. The 21st century was barely begun; the start of the 20th had seen such change—would the 21st as well? By the coming mid-century, would it be as different again as the world he’d left behind? So much to see and do, whether she was there or not. He had much to occupy him, to distract him from all those missed pathways with Jo. Try not to look back, to regret, to wonder.

Before he could take a step on that solitary journey, he found himself with a very rare treasure indeed—a second chance.

Jo, with pocket watch and photo in hand. Henry, with his heart in his throat. A thousand potential futures spread before them.

Where did he go from here?

Alone, or with her?


End file.
